


Wormwood

by Suzie_Shooter



Series: Midsomer Musketeers [8]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drug Withdrawal, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Murder Mystery, Nightmares, Past Drug Use, Police Procedural, crop circles/UFOs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 14:30:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17245880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suzie_Shooter/pseuds/Suzie_Shooter
Summary: Part eight in the Midsomer Musketeers series.Crop-circle fever descends on Owlbrook, but do the strange lights in the night sky really mean aliens - or something more dangerous? As Athos works on a case of chemical contamination Porthos finally gets to meet his father, but nothing is ever as simple as it looks and things have a way of converging - and someone who's killed once to protect their interests is always willing to try again...





	1. Chapter 1

It was late August, and the pace of life in Owlbrook seemed to have slowed to a drowsy amble. Athos leaned back in his chair to push the leaded window further open, encouraging a confused wasp out of the gap with his notepad.

There was only an hour to go before he could go home, and he was just contemplating taking off his tie when the phone rang. Caroline on the desk below explained that a gentleman had come in without an appointment and was Athos able to see him?

“Send him up.” 

The man who came in the door a moment later was tall and thin with a shock of grey hair and an energetic air about him. Despite this he seemed weighed down by something as he shook Athos’ hand, and settled into the visitor’s chair with a sigh.

“My name is Rattle, Edgar Rattle. My wife and I run an organic farm to the west of the village.”

“I know the one,” Athos nodded. “You sell produce in the shop here?” 

“Yes, that’s right. We supply quite a few of the local shops in the commuter villages, we have a stall in Hangate market, and have a number of contracts with nationwide distributors. We’re not a large concern, but we have been quite successful.” 

“There’s a problem?” Athos ventured. He was sensing the man wasn’t here to draw up a new contract or make a will. There was something worrying him, but now he was here he seemed reluctant to get to the point.

“Yes.” Mr Rattle looked him over shrewdly. “I’ve heard about you, Mr la Fère. You have a certain reputation for taking on difficult cases. Or perhaps I should say, against difficult opponents.”

“I’ve not had much cause since I’ve been working locally,” Athos acknowledged. “But previously, yes, I’ve had some success.”

“You’re too modest. I’ll be honest, I read up on you when your name was first suggested to me. I didn’t think I would have a chance of affording your services, but when I understood you were working here - ” He tailed off, looking a little nonplussed.

“I’ve downsized,” Athos smiled. “But please. What’s the issue we’re talking about here?”

Edgar Rattle tapped long fingers nervously on the edge of the desk, then seemed to make up his mind with a brisk nod.

"It's like this. To be able to label our produce as organic, we are obviously subject to pretty stringent regulations - we have to prove that we consistently work within the established guidelines. As part of this we have to submit to regular testing and also random checks. Well, within the last year, we've been getting some anomalous results. We've tested positive for pesticide content. Well I know for a fact that we're not using anything, we'd be crazy to. So I worked out it has to be coming from farmland further afield. Based on the prevailing wind direction, I figure it has to be a concern called Bio-Green. They farm pretty intensively a few miles further out."

"Bio-Green?" Athos made a note.

Rattle snorted derisively. "One of those names that looks good on a supermarket label but means absolutely nothing in terms of ecology. Anyway, the large commercial growers all use sprays, all manner of pollutants, we know that, it's sadly a fact of life. But they're not supposed to contaminate anyone else's land, there are regulations for the use and spread of those too. So I went to have a word with them, hoped we could sort it out amicably."

"I take it that didn't go well?"

"Threw me out without consideration. Were quite aggressive about it too. But that wasn't the worst of it." Rattle drew a photograph wallet from his inside pocket and passed it over. Athos took out the pictures and laid them out on the desk. They showed crops of brown and withered tomato plants.

"You're saying the pesticide contamination did this?"

"Oh no. I'd say that was neat weedkiller. Happened overnight, a couple of days after I went up there. Sabotage, pure and simple. And a warning, perhaps."

"Did you go to the police?"

"Of course. But I had no proof of who'd done it. We have no CCTV up there, there was nothing they could do. But I refuse to be frightened off."

Athos shook his head slowly. "We can apply for access to their audits, and possibly for a spot inspection, but it's not a fast process. You'd be looking at months of regular chemical testing over a sustained period in all different weather conditions, to prove it was coming from their land. It won't be cheap."

"If we win, I assume Bio-Green would be liable for costs?"

"If all you say is true, and can be proven, I'd say more than that, you'd be due a considerable sum in compensation. _If_ we win," he emphasised carefully. 

"Mr la Fère, if we lose I can wave goodbye to my accreditation. I'll be forced to sell up. I’d pay your fees from the subsequent proceeds, if that’s permissible? I’d be happy to sign something."

"You'd find it hard to sell as a going concern in that condition."

"I imagine it would be snapped up for building land. I've been approached by several developers over the years, wanting to expand the village. I've turned them all down, it goes against every one of my principles. But I would have no other option. You're my last hope."

"I can't promise miracles," Athos warned.

"I'm not looking for a miracle. Just for someone I can trust to fight my corner for me."

"Then I'll do my best."

\--

Walking home through the village after work, the air was warm and still. The gardens were full of flowers – roses, hollyhocks, peonies, all the colours of a village with a cut-throat approach to Britain in Bloom awards. The river Lynn was low, barely a trickle to appease the family of mallards quacking in the shade beneath the bridge.

Reaching home Athos changed out of his suit with a certain amount of relief and retreated to the back garden with a bottle of chilled white wine.

Not long after, he heard a knock on glass and looked up to see the shadow of Porthos behind the kitchen window, waving to let him know he’d arrived home. Porthos didn’t come outside but went up to take a much needed shower, appearing a while later in open shirt and shorts.

He kissed Athos hello, a peck that turned into something deeper, before taking the seat opposite and pouring himself a glass of wine.

They toasted each other and Porthos took a large swallow, letting his head fall back and stretching his legs out in front of him, bare toes pushing through the grass.

Athos watched him quietly and with pleasure. When he’d first moved into this house less than two years ago, a hollow and broken man, he’d bought the table and chairs almost as a reflex. He’d never had a garden before, and assumed it just was what you did. He’d never expected to have anyone to share it with. And now here was Porthos, living with him full time, a loving partner who also just happened to be incredibly attractive. He was several shades darker than usual after a long hot summer, and a lot of outdoor living plus gym time meant he was at peak fitness.

Athos was a little more toned himself these days, having developed a liking for long walks during his recuperation, and he was now back at work full time.

“How was your day?”

“New client.” Athos outlined Rattle’s case. “I’m going up there tomorrow, get the lie of the land, so to speak. Any of that ring a bell to you?” he asked, wondering if the sabotage incident had made it to Porthos’ ears.

“No. Never came my way. Probably wouldn’t have, unless it escalated or he had proof. Would’ve been treated as local vandalism.”

“It was a bit more than that!”

Porthos held his hands up. “Don’t scalp me for it,” he laughed. “I can’t investigate what I don’t know about.”

“No, I suppose not,” Athos conceded.

“I’ll tell you the kind’ve shite that does come across my desk though,” Porthos said. “Although this might be just because they know I’m living out here now, and it’s local. UFO’s.”

“You what?”

“FO’s,” Porthos grinned. “Flying saucers. Little green men.”

“In Owlbrook?”

“Above it, presumably,” Porthos snickered. “Reports of weird lights in the sky at night.”

“Aeroplanes?”

“Not on a scheduled flight path, and we’ve checked with the airforce. Probably somebody letting up those bloody candle lantern things with the little parachute. If one of them comes down in a field in this weather half the countryside’ll go up.”

“People don’t seem to think of it as littering on a vast scale if it’s pretty,” Athos observed, and Porthos nudged him with his foot. 

“So do you think you can win this case for old man Rattle then? Can you prove it’s the other lot?”

“It won’t be easy,” Athos admitted. “But it’s not impossible. If we can correlate wind direction and pesticide type we’re in with a shot. And Rattle also says he’s convinced they’ve been using chemicals that are banned in the UK. If we can prove that, it’ll be a walkover.”

“They might settle out of court?”

“No good to Rattle. It’s not money he needs, it’s for the farm to stop polluting him, or he loses everything.”

Porthos smiled to himself. He’d been anxious at first when Athos went back full time – his second attempt – but this time he seemed to be managing it better, and perhaps having a cause to devote himself to might bring a bit of the spark back as well.

Athos was still reeling off statistics of pesticide use. “It’s no wonder people come down with respiratory problems more and more, we’re living in a poison cloud. Sprays to kill the insects, sprays to encourage growth, sprays to inhibit growth, sprays to prevent rot and fungus and blight.”

“Isn’t protecting the food supply important?” Porthos asked, partly out of devilment and partly because preventing crops from rotting in the field didn’t sound all that bad.

“We’re killing the very food chain that supports it. Bees, for instance. You kill off the pollinators along with everything else and there’ll _be_ no crops,” Athos insisted.

“You never came up with all this rhetoric in an afternoon, have you been talking to Ninon?” Porthos guessed.

“Sylvie, actually.” Athos smiled. “She’s a bit of an anarchist on the quiet.”

“Don’t let her get you into trouble. I’d hate to have to lock you up.” Porthos gave him a lazy grin, reaching over to take his hand.

Athos smiled. “I’ll behave. I promise. But could you have a look in the files for me? See what was reported at the time, regarding Rattle’s spot of vandalism?”

“Sure,” Porthos agreed amenably. “Be careful though. Sounds like these guys play rough.”

\--

Later that night, Athos was closing the curtains before going to bed when something caught his eye out in the darkness. He switched off the light and peered out across the darkened valley. The cottage faced north, with most of the village proper lying to the west of them, but away up on the horizon lights were moving.

With no moon it was too dark to see where the brow of the hill was, and Athos wondered if he was seeing cars on the main road, but the size and configuration of whatever it was looked too large and irregular to be headlights. 

Athos stared, transfixed until Porthos came in from the bathroom and turned the main light on. Blinking, Athos turned away from the window.

“What you looking at?” Porthos asked curiously.

Athos looked back out, shading his eyes to peer through the glass, but the lights had gone. “Nothing. I think it must have been a reflection or something.” 

“Aliens?” Porthos suggested with a grin. “Maybe they’re coming to probe you.”

Athos let the curtain fall closed and came over to him with a smile. “I thought that was your job.”

\--

In the morning Athos tried to work out where the lights had been. He’d half concluded it must have been headlights after all, but looking on the map the main roads ran at different angles. There was nothing there but empty farmland, right up to the top of the hill and halfway to Hangate.

Abandoning the mystery but reasonably sure it probably wasn’t aliens, Athos walked down to the office. The village seemed a lot busier than normal, and he had difficulty crossing the road to say good morning to Sylvie, who was unlocking the estate agent’s.

"What's with all the traffic?" Athos called, having narrowly avoided being run over by a VW camper van asthmatically spluttering its way past at some speed. "It's not a festival or something is it?"

Sylvie grinned at him. "Ufologists. Crop circle chasers. Apparently one's appeared in a field up on Bracken Ridge."

"Really?" Athos stared at her. That tied in with the direction of the lights he’d seen. "Porthos said they'd had reports of - "

"What?" 

"Strange lights in the sky," he admitted, aware of how ridiculous it sounded. There was no such thing as aliens. Well, alright, in the greater scheme of things there probably was, but they were unlikely to have picked Owlbrook as a stopping off point.

Sylvie sniggered. "He's not hushing up an alien invasion is he? I for one welcome our new lizard overlords. They can't do worse than the current government, and with any luck they might eat them."

\--

At lunchtime Athos wandered into the Wiccan Well. It seemed busier than usual, and Athos waited for a crowd of people in an alarming amount of tie-dye and denim to leave before approaching the counter.

"What do you know about crop circles?"

Ninon snorted. "Load of hogwash."

"Really? I thought it might be right up your ally."

"Hoaxes, the lot of them."

"Not formed by alien landing craft then?"

"Have you seen the kind of thing we're talking about?" Ninon slid a book across the counter to him that one of the customers had been looking at. It was a glossy affair, and Athos flipped through it in amazement. The intricate geometric patterns photographed in fields right across Europe were astounding.

"I was just imagining a circle," Athos admitted. "Maybe a cluster, but - nothing like this."

"I think you'll agree, no aircraft or ball of psychic energy created those," said Ninon dryly. "Mostly they're done with a board and a bit of string. Very clever in themselves, and attractive to look at. But nothing mystical about them."

Athos turned the book over to look at the price. "You still sell these though?"

"And you defend people you know are guilty. I have a living to make."

"Point taken." Athos handed the book back again. “Is that what’s appeared up on the ridge then? Something like this?”

“Something simpler, from what that lot were saying. More like you were picturing, I guess. Probably just students. Oh, it wasn’t up on the ridge though,” Ninon corrected as Athos turned to go. “It was on old man Rattle’s land.”

\--

Athos found Edgar Rattle spitting mad and in the process of chasing six people and a dog out of his farmyard.

“This is intolerable!” he spluttered, as Athos helped him drag the gate closed. “I’m besieged!”

“I hear you’ve acquired a crop circle?”

“Which is bad enough, bloody vandals, wilful devastation is what it is,” Rattle complained, causing Athos to briefly picture himself suing an alien for destruction of property. “But the real problem is all the trespassing that follows in its wake. Hordes of the bastards trampling my crops, leaving the gates open, my wife opened the curtain this morning and found one of them looking in the window!”

“When did it appear? The circle I mean?”

Rattle shrugged. “This morning I suppose. Why?”

Athos looked thoughtful. “An awful lot of people seem to have heard about it very quickly. Is it visible from the road?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Rattle stared at him. “Do you think this is deliberate sabotage?”

“I wouldn’t like to speculate at this point. But it does seem a terribly strange coincidence.” He’d spent the first part of the morning looking into Bio-Green and been surprised by how much land they actually owned in the area. Apart from the forestry to the south and Rattle’s farm, nearly all the rest of the agricultural land circling the village was managed by Bio-Green. Rattle’s few acres occupied a prime spot right in the middle of their stranglehold, and Athos’ suspicions were building.

“Have they ever tried to buy you out directly?” Athos wondered. “You said you’d had offers.”

“Once. I told them where to go. I’d frankly rather see it go for building land than to those toxic bastards.”

Diplomacy didn’t appear to be one of Rattle’s strong points, although Athos conceded with some players a hard line was necessary. But while intimidation tactics might not work, sending him out of business would be just as effective if he was a thorn in the side of their business practices. He could imagine if Bio-Green really were using unlicensed pesticides the last thing they’d want was someone like Rattle calling attention to it.

Athos found himself rather relishing the challenge, and as Rattle gave him a tour of the farm he could certainly see the appeal of the organic methods. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected – some kind of Disney idyll perhaps, with frolicking bunnies and bluebirds with flowers in their beaks – but the farm was run on solidly commercial lines, with industrial machinery, modern-looking barns and endless stacks of plastic pallets. But the fields were small, and the hedges and wildflower-filled verges had been allowed to flourish. The air was full of birdsong, and there were more butterflies than Athos could remember seeing for years. As well as the cereal crops, there was an orchard and a market garden section comprising several polytunnels and a series of raised beds.

“You manage all this by yourself?” Athos clarified, impressed.

“With my wife, yes. We have a small but loyal staff and make do as best we can with seasonal labour at the more intensive harvest points. A shadow passed over his face, and Athos probed deeper.

“You’ve had problems?

Rattle nodded grimly. “Bio-Green have a habit of stealing my workers. They lure them away with a promise of far more than I can pay them. God knows how they make it stack up, they can’t possibly be paying the whole labour force that much, it wouldn’t be sustainable. They employ far greater numbers than I do.” Rattle looked momentarily confused, then shrugged. “No doubt they’re cutting corners somewhere else.”

“It comes at a price, you see, to farm at this scale” Rattle explained. “And people don’t want to pay over the odds when they can get a plastic bag of plastic carrots for a fraction of the price. They don’t even care when they don’t taste of anything.”

“It’s a shame,” Athos agreed, thinking guiltily of his fridge at home stocked with supermarket produce delivered conveniently to his door. He was certainly one of the few who could afford to buy ethically produced food, but he didn’t bother. He probably should.

Rattle took him indoors and showed him the reports with the anomalous chemical readings. “We have our semi-annual inspection at the end of the month. If anything out of the ordinary comes up then - ” He didn’t finish, but his expression made the consequences plain.

“Are they even spraying at this time of year?”

“Chemicals build up in the soil and the crops. Harvesting can contaminate as well, if the wind’s right. And they also have constant rotation, they can get more vegetable crops out that I can, with the amount of artificial fertilisers they use. They spray pretty much constantly.”

“It sounds horrific.”

“Modern practices, Mr la Fère. Although I’m bound to admit, it is regulated. It’s when companies step outside those boundaries that we have problems.”

“They certainly seem to be playing hardball.”

“Does that worry you?”

Athos smiled. “Actually, I’m rather looking forward to it.”

\--

Porthos was about to shut down his PC for the day when he brought up his calendar to check the next day’s schedule and saw that an appointment had gone in that he could swear hadn’t been there ten minutes ago.

“Which one of you bastards just sent me a meeting for half six?” he bellowed through the open door to his office.

There was a certain amount of muttering outside, then DS d’Artagnan risked sticking his head in. “Nobody out here sir? What’s it for?”

“Just says ‘Briefing’ and nothing else.” Porthos clicked on the appointment to see who’d sent it. “Who’s Mari Priyantha?” He frowned. “Where do I know that name from?”

Elodie appeared behind d’Artagnan. “Chief Constable’s PA, sir,” she offered.

“Christ, you’re right.” Porthos stared at his screen in something approaching alarm.

“After-hours meeting with the CC? Must be important,” d’Artagnan speculated.

“You’re probably in the shit.” This was Marcheaux, who’d joined the group in the doorway and sounded quite cheerful about the prospect. “That or they’re closing us down. Been shutting a lot of cop-shops lately, keep costs down. Probably merging us with Brighton nick. You could be out of a job sir.”

Porthos glowered at him. “Let’s not speculate ahead of the facts, eh?”

He sighed, taking out his phone to text Athos.

_Be late home, got to stay on for a meeting, sorry!_

A minute later he got a reply.

_I’ll cancel the table then?_

Porthos stared at it, then belatedly remembered they’d been going out to dinner. It was the six month anniversary of Porthos officially moving in, and they’d planned to go out for a meal at The George in Mayfield St Margaret. Nothing ostentatious, just a change of scene, but he’d completely forgotten about it until now.

“Bollocks!”

D’Artagnan’s head reappeared cautiously round the door. “Problem sir?”

“Just my life sergeant, just my life. Close the door, would you?”

When d’Artagnan had obliged, Porthos called Athos. 

He answered straight away. “Hey.”

“Hey you. Sorry. Something’s come up. I’d duck out, but it’s come from the Chief Constable’s office and it’s more than my job’s worth.”

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, I’m sure it’s fine,” Porthos said, more confidently than he felt. “Probably just some bigwig visiting the region, maybe the Queen’s dropping round to open something.” Hoping that Marcheaux’s idle speculation didn’t turn out to be prophetic. He was right, they were merging a lot of stations lately. “I’m really sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. Should I try and rebook for tomorrow night?”

Porthos hesitated. “Better not, until I know what this is about. Might turn out to be something needing overtime.”

“Okay, well, let me know. I guess I’ll see you when I see you?”

“Yeah, hopefully it won’t be too late. Sorry for screwing up the evening.”

“You can always make it up to me,” Athos told him, sounding amused. 

Porthos rang, off, feeling both relieved and guilty. It wasn’t the first time his job had thrown off their plans at the last minute. Athos was always understanding, but nearly all Porthos’ previous relationships had foundered when his partners finally ran out of patience, and consequently having to do it made him edgy.

When six thirty rolled around Porthos was the only person left in the CID suite, and he hoped this wasn’t going to take long. If he could get home by half seven they could still salvage the evening. 

The desk rang up to say that his appointment had arrived, and Porthos told them to send him up.

The man that walked through the door a few minutes later though was a stranger to him. Porthos, who’d been expecting the Chief Constable or one of his deputies, was confused, particularly when the man gave him an odd smile of recognition.

“Porthos. It’s good to see you.”

Porthos frowned. “Sorry, have we met?”

The man checked himself. “You’re right, my apologies Detective Inspector Du Vallon, we haven’t been formally introduced. But I believe you will have heard of me. My name is John Treville. I knew your father.”

\--


	2. Chapter 2

“In person?” Athos stared at Porthos across the kitchen, where he’d sunk into one of the dining chairs still looking slightly stunned as he explained to Athos who his meeting had turned out to be with and what Treville had told him.

Porthos nodded. “Yeah. It threw me, I can tell you.”

Having grudgingly provided Athos with a number through which he could allegedly be contacted, Treville had since proved elusive. Messages left on the answerphone had gone unacknowledged, and Porthos had eventually given up. That had been months ago, and so the sudden contact now was utterly unexpected.

"Why now?" Athos wondered. “Did he explain why he’s avoided getting back to us?”

"Said he's been overseas."

"This long?" Athos scoffed. "No, he made it quite clear when I met him he wasn't going to tell you any more than he told me. I wasn’t particularly surprised when we never heard from him again. What I want to know is what's happened since then to make him change his tune?"

"Maybe he just cares about me, did that occur to you?" Porthos said, needled slightly by Athos’ conviction that Treville must have an ulterior motive.

"Well he hasn't for the last three decades, has he?" Athos pointed out. 

Porthos couldn't really argue with that, even if he'd wanted to. "Well maybe something's happened to him on a personal level. Maybe he's become a father himself or something. Given him a new perspective."

"Mmn." Athos didn't look convinced.

"I thought you'd be happy for me."

"I am." Athos came over and hugged him. "Of course I am. I'm just - "

"Suspicious," Porthos supplied.

"I don't want to see you get hurt. This man has done nothing to make me trust him so far, and I can't help feeling he’s up to something."

"Well the news is already better than I'd feared," Porthos said. "What with all this cloak and dagger secrecy I thought my father was going to end up being a gangster or something. But he's a CEO. That's not bad, is it?"

"You said it was some kind of distribution company?"

"Yeah. Some agricultural conglomerate. Supplies supermarkets, here and abroad." 

Athos stared. “Didn’t happen to say what the company name was did he?”

“Belgard Industries.”

Athos relaxed a fraction. Coincidences made him itchy but there had to be hundreds of agricultural bodies in the country. He was being paranoid, that was all. 

“I suppose that makes me a Belgard too,” Porthos mused. “More than a Du Vallon. Do you think I should change it?”

“Maybe see what the man’s like before taking his name,” Athos said dryly. “Is that what you want?”

“I’m not sure I feel like I own my own name any more,” Porthos admitted.

“You could always change it to de la Fère.”

Porthos laughed, then did a double take. “Did you just ask me to marry you?” he asked cautiously.

“What would you say if I had?” Athos countered non-committally, not meeting his eyes.

Porthos was silent, and Athos finally turned to look at him.

“I’ve – just got a lot going on in my head right now,” Porthos said slowly. “I’m sorry.” He looked wretched, and Athos immediately shifted closer and put an arm round him.

“It’s okay,” he said quickly. “It’s okay. I’m sorry. My timing sucks, as ever. I didn’t mean to overload you.”

“I’m not saying no.” Porthos gave him a tired smile, relieved beyond measure that Athos hadn’t taken offence at what he felt had been a confused and badly-expressed rejection. “Ask me again? When I’ve sorted my head out a bit?”

“Of course,” Athos promised softly, and they kissed each other. “When will you go? I assume you are going to see him?”

“Yes.” Porthos nodded, relieved that Athos had taken this as self-evident. He’d been half worried Athos would try and talk him out of it. “Tomorrow night.”

“Will you tell him who you are?”

Porthos hesitated. “Maybe I’ll see how it goes first. I’ve made an appointment through his office, I can always make something up if I don’t think it’s going well.”

“Do you want me to come with you?”

Porthos was touched. “Thank you, but no. I need to do this on my own, I think.”

“Whatever you think’s best.” Athos drew Porthos back into his arms. “If you need to, okay. But remember you don’t have to.”

\--

Despite being happy that Porthos seemed to be getting somewhere with tracing his family connections, Athos couldn’t help the nagging feeling that Treville wouldn’t have suddenly volunteered the information out of the goodness of his heart, certainly not after so many months of refusing to do just that. 

In the office the next morning he tried to put it out of his mind, concentrating on making applications for access to Bio-Green’s audits. To sell their produce they had to comply with as many regulations as Rattle, and it would all be a matter of record. The more interesting question would be if they were managing to hide banned chemical usage. If he could force a spot inspection it might throw up interesting answers. 

He also looked into the Bio-Green employees, figuring if they were the kind of people who weren’t above a bit of sabotage they might have criminal records. Tracing back through the company records trying to establish the line of corporate responsibility, Athos realised that Bio-Green was actually a subsidiary of another company, which in turn seemed to be accountable to yet another umbrella organisation. When the name came up on his screen he stared at it for a second, then sat back in his chair. 

Belgard Industries.

“So that’s it.” He’d been convinced Treville’s sudden about-face had had a cause, and discovering he was right left him feeling both vindicated and disturbed. Was Treville keeping tabs on him? It wasn’t an especially pleasant thought and he instinctively looked around the room, as if he was suddenly going to spot a spy-camera.

A moment’s reflection suggested this was unlikely. More probably it was related to the search he’d asked Porthos to run on Bio-Green, in connection with Rattle’s sabotaged tomato crop. If Treville was keeping tabs on Belgard for some reason and thought that Porthos might be coming into imminent contact with him, perhaps he’d decided to pre-empt the discovery. But to what end?

Athos sighed. He didn’t like the way this was heading, and he certainly didn’t look forward to the conversation with Porthos, who already seemed defensive about it all. On the other hand, he realised it might be a way of approaching Rattle’s problem from the other direction. If Porthos’ father really was the Chief Executive of the whole consortium, he might be willing to tighten things up a little in one of his subsidiaries rather than face a potentially reputation-damaging court case. It was worth a shot.

\--

“Absolutely not.” Porthos folded his arms and glared at Athos across the living room. 

“All I’m asking is that you mention it to him,” Athos suggested in what he considered to be an eminently reasonable tone of voice. “See what he says. See how he reacts.”

Porthos gave a growl of frustration. “He’s my _father_ Athos. I’m meeting him for the first time in my life, and you want me to accuse him of sabotage?”

“That’s not what I said at all.”

“It’s what it amounts to. How do you think it’s going to come across?”

“If he’s not aware of the issue you might even be doing him a favour.”

“You don’t even know for sure there is an issue!” Porthos snatched up his coat and checked the pocket for his keys. “All you’ve got is the suspicions of one barmy old man, and your own poxy need for a cause. I’m not going to let you ruin this for me!” 

Porthos stormed out and slammed the door behind him, leaving Athos to slump back into his chair with a heartfelt groan. 

\--

It was about an hour’s drive to Belgard’s house, which lay in rolling hills to the north of Hangate. Asking for a meeting whilst being deliberately vague about the subject of it, Porthos had been prepared to wait some considerable time, and had been surprised when Belgard’s assistant had come back to offer him not only a time the following evening, but at the man’s private residence rather than his office.

Looking up at the substantial walls of the estate from the road outside, Porthos tried to shake off the feeling of being an intruder. He had every right to be here, and wondered with an unaccustomed bitterness what had happened that meant he grew up seemingly orphaned and alone in the world rather than inside these walls.

Reaching a set of heavy gates, he was just wondering if there was an intercom when the gates opened automatically to admit his car.

The house at the end of the well-maintained driveway was immense. A columned portico at the top of a wide flight of steps was flanked by three floors of wide windows, amidst grounds full of carefully tailored topiary and neat borders.

For a place of such size Porthos expected more staff, but the place appeared deserted, and the man who opened the front door Porthos recognised from his pictures as Belgard himself.

"Detective Inspector Du Vallon, I assume. What can I do for you?" Belgard shook Porthos' hand warmly.

"Thank you for seeing me sir. Firstly, I must apologise if I gave the wrong impression to your office on the phone," Porthos said. "I’m not here on official business. It's - actually it's a personal matter."

"Oh?" Belgard looked politely enquiring, giving nothing away, but Porthos had a feeling that he knew perfectly well what was behind this. Why arrange to see him at home, alone, if he'd thought it to be an official police matter?

"There's not really any easy way to say this. I believe you might be my father."

"Goodness." The neutral expression didn't change, which rather confirmed Porthos' suspicion it wasn't wholly unexpected. "What makes you think that?"

"I recently discovered that the man I'd always believed to be my father wasn't. I started trying to find out who was."

"And how did this lead you to me?"

Porthos hesitated. Treville has advised him not to bring his name into it. "My partner's a lawyer. He traced a connection to you," he said instead. It was sort of true, after all.

"He?" There was no trace of distaste in the echo, but it did at least have the effect of distracting Belgard from the details of how Porthos had found him.

"Yes." Porthos nodded, holding Belgard's gaze calmly and offering no further explanation. 

"I see. And does he have a name, this partner of yours?" 

"Athos. Athos de la Fère." Porthos shook off a slight prickle of unease. There was no reason not to tell him, and he was honestly glad Belgard was taking an interest. You never quite knew how people were going to react.

“I see.” Belgard studied him curiously for a long moment, then nodded slightly. “You’d better come through. It appears we have a certain amount to discuss.”

He lead Porthos through into a large sitting room, where a tray of coffee was waiting. Porthos had the impression that there were more staff here than he’d at first thought, although staying out of sight. Invisible staff, to make the lives of the rich run smoothly. It made him briefly irrationally angry, but there was too much for him to take in here and he swallowed it down as he took the seat indicated.

"How did you find out your father wasn't who you thought it was?" Belgard enquired, once Porthos was settled with a coffee.

"He died when I was small. I was trying to find out more about my heritage, so I had a DNA test done, and the results were – surprising, to say the least.” Porthos hesitated. “If you'd be agreeable to it, a similar test would easily confirm if you are - ”

Belgard waved this away. "That won't be necessary. I believe your assumption to be correct."

"You do?" Porthos stared at him. He hadn't expected it to be this easy.

Belgard bowed his head, then lifted it again to study Porthos' face intently. 

"I had a son called Porthos," he admitted. "Although I never met him, and all these years I believed him to be dead. You must forgive my reticence, in not being entirely open about what I suspected this might be about, but you can imagine how unlikely it seemed. But seeing you, here, now - yes, I can believe that you might be my son."

"You thought I was dead?"

Belgard nodded. "I loved your mother very much. Unfortunately she did not feel the same way, and left me for a man named Philippe du Vallon. I only found out some time after she'd gone that she'd been pregnant. I would have made a case for access, but not long after that there was an accident."

"A gas explosion."

"Yes. You can only imagine my shock, and grief. And I believed you had died with them." Belgard's face clouded for a moment with something that might have been anger, but it passed just as quickly.

“I was placed into care,” Porthos explained. “Grew up about an hour away from here.” Saying it out loud made it hurt, but Belgard was shaking his head.

“I haven’t lived here long. Five years at most. My little retirement cottage.” He laughed, and Porthos who’d grown up with nothing, managed not to grit his teeth.

Seeing, or perhaps sensing that he’d been tactless, Belgard hurried to smooth things over. “I started out with very little,” he said. “I’ve worked hard to build up a number of companies over the course of my career. Nobody handed me this. I’ve earned every stone of this place.”

Porthos nodded, mollified slightly, then hesitated. He hadn’t intended to ask Athos’ question, but things had gone a lot better than he’d expected, and maybe it wouldn’t hurt. It would serve, too, as a peace offering when he got home.

“Forgive my asking, but is one of your companies called Bio-Green?”

“Yes, that’s right. Why?”

“It’s just – Athos, my partner, is representing someone at the moment who thinks one of their farms might be contaminating his land with pesticides.”

“We’ve never made any secret of pesticide use. Britain needs to be fed, and while the small organic suppliers are admirable, it simply doesn’t work on a commercial scale.”

“There’s a suggestion it might be a banned one.”

Belgard’s eyebrows went up. “I can assure you it won’t be. All our farms are regularly monitored and checked by the Ministry of Agriculture or whatever they’re calling it this week, as are anyone else’s.” He pursed his lips. “But this is a concerning allegation. If it helps, I can look into it. All our suppliers are subject to the strictest controls, but I can certainly double check. Our reputation means a great deal.”

“Thank you. That’s more than I could have hoped.”

\--

It was late when Porthos finally got home but he found Athos waiting up. 

“How did it go?” Athos got to his feet when Porthos came in, and Porthos was relieved there was no lingering irritation at the way they’d parted company. 

“Yeah. It went okay.” He nodded tiredly, still coming to terms with everything. “More than okay.”

“He believed you?”

“Yeah. He did. He accepts he’s my father, Athos.”

“That’s – wow. I don’t know what to say.” Athos came over and pulled him into a hug. “I’m pleased for you.”

“Thanks.” Porthos hugged him back hard. “It was more than I ever dared hope.”

“He doesn’t want – well, proof?” Athos asked. “A DNA test or something?”

“He didn’t ask for one. He knew my name. He said – he said he’d believed I’d died.”

“With your parents?” 

Porthos nodded.

“Someone must have made him think that. Treville?” Athos guessed.

“I don’t know. Why would he have?”

Athos shrugged. “There’s a lot about all this that makes no sense. But I’m glad it seems to be working out for you.”

“I asked about the Bio-Green thing,” Porthos remembered suddenly. “He thinks it’s unlikely, says they’re regulated and inspected up to the hilt, but he’s going to make enquiries, just to be sure.”

“That’s – positive. Thank you. I wasn’t trying to sabotage anything,” Athos added quietly.

“I know.” Porthos gave an apologetic sigh, and folded Athos back into his arms. For a moment they just stood there, arms wrapped around each other, holding each other tightly.

“I love you,” Porthos whispered.

Athos turned his head and pressed a kiss into Porthos’ neck. “I love you too. Always.”

\--

Lying in bed together later, having brought each other off slowly with soft lips and gentle fingers in what was almost-but-not-quite make-up sex, conversation turned back to Belgard.

“You should have seen the place he lives,” Porthos said, sounding faintly stunned. “I reckon I’ve paid to look round houses smaller than that.”

“Does he live there alone, or is there more family? Presumably he married at some point? Do you have brothers and sisters?” It was a question that had never really occurred to them before, and Porthos stared at him.

“I didn’t ask. And he never said. He didn’t say much about himself, now I come to think about it. He wanted to know all about me. Us.”

Porthos sounded defensive, and Athos soothed him. “It’s understandable. Plenty of time to find out the rest,” he offered.

“Yeah. He said he’d like to meet you, too. Said he’ll arrange a time for us to come over for dinner one night. Would that be okay?”

“Of course. I’d like to meet him.” Athos felt faintly guilty about how tentative Porthos was being and wondered if he’d come across too negatively. “I am pleased for you, you know.”

Porthos gave him a troubled smile. “Why do I feel like everything’s going to go wrong?” he asked under his breath.

“Think positive.” Athos hugged him close. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. You’re right. I’m just being paranoid.” Porthos snuggled up to him and closed his eyes, but as he drifted off to sleep he couldn’t shift the sentence going round and round in his head.

Be careful what you wish for. 

\--

After an emotionally draining evening and a late night, the next morning found Porthos slumped at his desk wishing he could go back to bed. His bleary-eyed contemplation of his empty coffee mug was interrupted by Elodie barging into his office with the briefest of knocks. 

“Report’s come in of a body, sir. Farm over at Owlbrook.”

Porthos looked up wearily. “Not calling us out to another tractor accident are they constable?”

Elodie shook her head, clearing trying to contain what was technically inappropriate enthusiasm in the face of violent death. “Apparently there’s suspicious circumstances.”

“Who’s the victim, do we know?”

Elodie shook her head again. “Identity unconfirmed as yet, but the land belongs to an Edgar Rattle?”

Porthos’ head shot up again, all lingering traces of tiredness gone. “Shit.”

\--

Crackling as they walked in white SOCO suits, the four of them tramped up the hillside, following an already well-beaten path through the cornfield to where a team were taping off the immediate area.

They came to a halt in a line looking down at the body, and Marcheaux whistled through his teeth. “Well, fuck.”

Porthos pursed his lips and found himself nodding. There wasn’t a lot else you could say. A man’s body, battered and bloody as if subjected to a great weight, was laid out in the middle of the cornfield – in the exact centre of a huge crop circle.

\--


	3. Chapter 3

Marcheaux folded his arms, looking from the trampled ground up to the cloudless sky. "Beam me up, Scotty." 

"They never actually said that you know," Porthos muttered automatically.

"Sometimes I worry about you sir."

D’Artagnan sighed. “Well this is going to look great on the front page.” 

“It’s not getting there,” Porthos said firmly. “I don’t want a sniff of this in the press, are we clear?” He glared round at all of them, his gaze coming to rest on Marcheaux, who looked indignant. 

“As if I would!”

“Hmmn.” The local paper had all too in-depth information on active cases sometimes, and he had his suspicions as to the source of the leak. Not least because Marcheaux's current girlfriend was a reporter and Porthos had a hard time believing she was dating him for his personality.

“Is it Rattle, do we think?” Elodie was bending over the corpse, wincing at the damage it had sustained, having effectively been crushed. But the face was still recognisable, and it was one Porthos had seen recently in Athos’ file notes.

“Yes,” he sighed. This was going to be a headache of almighty proportions if it turned out to be related to the previous complaint Rattle had made concerning sabotage. Certain solicitors of his acquaintance could make one heck of a mileage out of the fact the police had never taken it seriously enough to follow up. Fuck.

“Did someone order a lawyer?”

Porthos frowned, Marcheaux’s words cutting so precisely into his thoughts that he was startled. “What?”

Marcheaux just nodded in the direction of the road and Porthos looked round to find Athos striding across the field towards them, looking tense. He groaned inwardly. Athos was hardly going to be thrilled to discover his latest client had been murdered.

He walked out to head him off, pulling down the hood of his forensic suit.

“Athos this is a crime scene, you can’t be here,” he said gruffly, hoping to spare him the sight at least.

“Just tell me. Is it him? Is it Rattle?”

Porthos stared at him indecisively, then gave a tight nod. “Looks like it. Although I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone just yet.”

“Tell anyone? Half the village is talking about it.”

“What? How?” Porthos asked, irritated.

“The guy who found him mentioned it in the shop. A word of warning, you might want to get some more uniforms up here.”

“Why?”

“Because of them.” Athos pointed down the field and Porthos turned to look. Coming up the hill were a considerable number of the UFO-hunters, and what looked like at least two reporters.

“Oh, shit.” Porthos headed towards them, making himself as big and angry looking as possible and trying to head them off before the crowd decimated any remaining evidence.

Behind him, Athos took advantage of his distraction to edge closer to the body, coming to a halt with his hands raised apologetically as d’Artagnan stepped in to head him off.

“I’m sorry, I can’t let you – ”

“I know. I won’t get in the way. I just needed to see for myself.” Athos stared down at the ruined remains of a man and swallowed hard. 

“If you throw up on his corpse, the chief’ll be pissed,” Marcheaux announced cheerfully. “Come on, hop it.” He took hold of Athos’ arm, delighted at the opportunity to legitimately evict his boss’s boyfriend from the crime scene, only to find Athos a lot harder to move than he expected.

Athos just looked at him coldly. “I suggest you take your hands off me before you find yourself facing a charge of assault.”

Marcheaux gave him a poisonous look, but before he could say anything Athos had turned and left of his own accord, avoiding the crowd now arguing loudly with Porthos and Elodie by cutting diagonally down through the field.

His mind was in a whirl. The shock of the condition of Rattle’s body was compounded by the bizarre circumstances it had been found in. Had it been an accident? Had he somehow got in the way of whoever had been making the crop circles? It hadn’t been a board on a string that had done that much damage, it looked more like he’d been run over by a combine harvester. What if he’d heard someone out there and gone to confront them? That made more sense. But his injuries didn’t. There was no indication anything other than people on foot had gone up that field. He’d have to confirm that with Porthos later, assuming he was willing to share. He hadn’t looked best pleased to find Athos on the scene, although he supposed he had a lot to cope with.

Athos stopped dead as a nasty thought occurred to him. Rattle had been about to sue Bio-Green. Belgard was the owner of Bio-Green, and last night, at Athos’ own instigation, Porthos had told him as much. 

He started walking again, more slowly. No, there couldn’t be a connection, that was taking paranoia too far. Wasn’t it? Still, it was less far fetched than thinking Rattle had been killed by a spacecraft.

Athos gradually became conscious of a rustling in the field around him that was more than the wind. He stopped to listen, wondering if it was a dog. Here at the bottom of the field the corn had devolved into weeds, giving way to cow parsley and tangles of goosegrass as high as his shoulder.

It wasn’t tall enough to conceal an adult though, and as the rustling got louder, on both sides of him now, he had the sudden irrational image of murderous aliens stalking him through the field.

“Who’s there?” It was a horrible feeling to think he was being watched as much as being stalked, and his chest felt tight. “I can see you!” he lied.

More rustling, and something leaped out onto the track in front on him, followed by several others. Athos just managed to stop himself swearing in time.

“What the f-flipping heck are you lot doing here?”

Billy and his cronies grinned up at him. “We heard there was aliens,” Billy informed Athos cheerfully. “They’re invading. We heard they killed somebody already.”

“You can’t be here,” Athos told them sternly. Rattle’s corpse was certainly a far worse sight than the previous one the kids had discovered, and he didn’t want them seeing it. “Besides,” he added, hitting on an idea. “I heard that they were going to land on the playground.”

“For real?” Billy brightened, and immediately mustered the rest of the gang to head off in hot pursuit, disappearing through the hedge like so many wild animals. Athos smiled faintly. Billy was neither the eldest nor the biggest, but he seemed to consistently lead the lot of them in and out of trouble with the panache of a small general.

He reached the stile leading to the next field and sat down on the old stone for a moment, recovering himself. He didn’t want to admit just how shaken he’d been in those seconds before he’d known who it was out there. He’d had some weird experiences on these paths, and sometimes it was difficult to know exactly what was in his head. 

Athos looked up, the bright sunshine contrasting with the shadows of the hedge to give an effect that was briefly dazzling. A dark patch seemed to draw his eye, blacker than the others, an absence of light that felt like it was sucking him in and he had to reach out, touching the warm stone beneath him, anchoring himself. Breathing deeply until he could shift perspective enough to see it was just a shadow, a darker tree trunk after all, nothing strange about it. But the moment of unreality had thrown him, the unpleasant feeling of being off balance in the world.

He shoved his shaking hands into his pockets and made himself stand up again. He could do without a relapse right now. He needed to know what had happened to Rattle and why. 

And if he had unwittingly been the cause of it.

\--

Without consciously thinking about it Athos found his feet carrying him through the village and into the cool sanctuary of the church. Perhaps it was just shelter from the blazing sun but it felt like a weight lifted fractionally as he moved into the dim interior. 

He sank into a pew, feeling his breathing and heart-rate gradually calming. He hadn’t realised how tense he’d been until he sat down and made a conscious effort to relax himself.

Staring sightlessly at the nearest stone column he realised with a start that something was staring back at him. A face peered down from the bottom of the arch, leaves spewing from its mouth in a choking tangle of vegetation.

Athos shuddered, then jumped sharply as someone slid into the pew next to him.

“Someone’s jumpy,” Aramis observed. Everything alright?” 

“Shouldn’t it be?”

“You only come in here when you’re feeling low,” Aramis said quietly, without looking at him. “I’ve noticed. I mean – I’m glad it helps. I hope it helps. But you’ve also not been in for a while, so – everything alright?”

Athos chewed his lip hesitantly. “There’s been a murder.”

“What? Again?” Aramis winced. “You didn’t find this one and all did you?”

“No. But he was my client. I needed to see what had happened. See the – see the body.”

“Did you? Really need to, I mean?”

“I thought so.” Athos rubbed his palms together, as if they felt dirty. “Porthos tried to stop me.”

“You know, you should really listen to the man occasionally.”

“I know.” Athos managed a small smile. “And yet.” He shivered. “I felt guilty I suppose.”

“Why, did you kill him?”

“No!”

“Then you’ve no reason to, have you?”

“Easy to say.” Athos changed the subject. “How are things with you anyway?”

“Not bad.” Aramis brightened. “We’ve set a date.”

“You have? That’s great! Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” Aramis looked embarrassed but pleased. “It’s not for a while. Winter wedding. You’ll come, won’t you? It’s only going to be small, but it’d mean a lot if you were there. And Porthos, obviously.”

“Try and keep me away. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Athos smiled at him. “Will it be here?”

Aramis looked away. “Up at the manor, probably. Anne’s getting it registered for ceremonies. Good for publicity, if she gets hitched there herself.”

Athos sensed Aramis was less than unenthusiastic about this, and frowned. “Wouldn’t you rather get married in here? In your own church?”

“Kind’ve, yes. But it doesn’t matter.”

“Have you actually told her what you’d like?”

“Well. No.”

“You should.”

“Do you think so? It’s taken us so long to get to this point I hardly dare rock the boat.”

“Well that’s hardly any way to start off a marriage is it? Talk to her. Even if you come to the same conclusion, at least you’ll have discussed it.”

“Mmmn.” Aramis gave him an amused look. “Are you always like this?”

“Like what?”

“Better at giving advice than taking it.”

Athos shrugged. “Probably. Not that anyone ever takes mine, either. So what advice are you giving me?”

“Stop feeling guilty for things that aren’t your fault.”

Athos glanced sideways at him, conceding a reluctant smile. Aramis smiled back, and gave a slight shrug. “Bad things happen.”

“For a reason?” Athos asked, a note in his voice somewhere between baffled resistance and pleading.

“No. Sometimes everything just goes to shit. The important thing is to keep doing good despite it all, and trust that ultimately it weighs in the balance.”

“Because God is watching?” Athos asked ironically, but Aramis shook his head. He got to his feet again, resting his hand on Athos’ shoulder for a second.

“Even if nobody’s watching. Perhaps especially then.”

\--

Rattle’s body had been moved to the mortuary for an expedited post mortem and Porthos and d’Artagnan arrived promptly after lunch in hope of answers.

“Well?” Porthos wasn’t in the mood for the pathologist’s usual whimsy and hoped to cut to the chase. The rotund little man clasped his hands together and smiled at them the smile of a man who is both satisfied with his day’s work, and knows something you don’t. 

“Well Inspector. I am willing to put actual money on the fact you won’t guess how he died.”

“If you tell me he ascended to a higher plane, I will actually punch you,” Porthos growled.

“Who can say what happens to the departed soul?” the pathologist mused, then caught Porthos’ expression and cleared his throat. “But no, I’m talking about actual cause of death.”

“I’ll take a wild guess and say he was run over,” said Porthos. “And not by a spaceship, either. Some kind of heavy farm machinery, at a guess.”

The pathologist looked delighted. “You’d think that, wouldn’t you? And, indeed, he was subjected to something very similar to what you describe. But that wasn’t what killed him. These injuries were inflicted after death. No Inspector, this man was poisoned.”

\--

“Tea, Mr la Fère?”

“Thank you.” Athos accepted the cup from Donna Rattle as she joined him at the farmhouse table. There was no tremor in her hands as she passed him the cup and saucer. She had received the news of her husband’s death with a grim calmness that had instantly made the informing officers (who judging from her description had been Marcheaux and Elodie) inclined to suspect she’d done it, but as she explained to Athos now, her husband had been missing since the early hours and when a body had been reported in the top field it hadn’t taken a genius to put two and two together. She had merely been awaiting confirmation.

“I realise this is a bad time to ask, but – what will you do?”

“I shall continue,” Donna said simply. “This is my home – my life – as much as it was Edgar’s. I shall continue to fight for it. It’s what he would have wanted.”

“And the legal case? I’m still at a stage where I could wrap it up with little cost to yourself,” Athos lied, confident that he could either talk Drew into giving the widow a break, or at worst paying the fees incurred so far himself. 

“Do you think they’re connected?” Donna asked, having taken a second to consider her answer. “Edgar’s death and the fact he was preparing to take these people on?”

Athos blinked. “Do you think continuing the suit might also put you in danger?” It was an aspect he hadn’t considered.

“Not just me for that matter, perhaps you as well,” she pointed out calmly. “It’s a risk I’m willing to take. But not one I can in good conscience ask of you.”

Athos studied her across the table. She had short steel-grey hair and grey-blue eyes, large hands that were steady as she poured herself tea, and a look of determination that suggested whoever had killed her husband would be brought to account before she would allow herself to grieve. A woman capable of murder? Perhaps, Athos thought. But not in this case. 

“I’ll do whatever you instruct,” he said quietly. “I’m not in the habit of abandoning clients when things get rough.”

“Good.” She set down her cup, untouched. “Find these bastards for me, Mr la Fère.”

“I take it _you_ think the two matters are connected?”

“Don’t you? Edgar didn’t have any other enemies. Who else profits by his death?” She gave a thin smile. “Certainly not me, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I prefer not to make assumptions that may cloud the matter,” Athos said cautiously, then sighed. “But I can’t help feeling you’re right.”

\-- 

Waking in the middle of the night Porthos turned over, instinctively seeking the warm body beside him, only to find himself alone in the bed. He listened, but could hear no telltale creaking of floorboards or running water to suggest Athos might be in the bathroom. When a few minutes had passed and Athos hadn't reappeared, Porthos conceded he was never going to get back to sleep until he knew where he'd gone, so he got up and padded downstairs.

He found Athos sitting at the kitchen table in his dressing gown, fingers locked around a half-drunk mug of tea.

"Hey. Everything alright?" Porthos slid into the chair next to him.

"Can't sleep."

"You okay?"

“Not really,” Athos admitted. "I can't stop thinking that it's my fault," he confessed. "What happened to Rattle. He said I was his last hope. If I hadn't encouraged him to fight this - "

"Then he'd have lost his farm and been miserable."

"But he'd have been alive."

"Athos, it's not your fault. Not to piss on your self-pity parade, but you're not the only lawyer in the county. If you'd turned him down, someone else would've taken him on. It's not your fault, it's not his fault. The only guilty party is whoever did this to him."

Athos nodded miserably, looking less than convinced.

"Come back to bed," Porthos coaxed.

"I don't think I'll be getting much sleep tonight. You go," Athos sighed, rubbing his eyes.

"Is it bad?" Porthos asked quietly. 

Athos gave him a bleak smile. "Pretty bad, yeah. Trying really hard not to think about how good a couple of sleeping pills would feel right now."

Porthos winced. "Is there anything I can do?"

Athos shook his head. "Go back to bed. Don't let me screw up your sleep patterns as well. I'm fine."

Porthos gave an exasperated laugh. “Athos you literally just told me you weren’t. Don’t start feeling you have to lie about it, or that you have to balls it out.”

“I just - ” Athos faltered, and Porthos reached for his hand. 

“What is it? Athos talk to me, please. Whatever it is.”

“I need to know,” Athos said in an undertone. “What happened to Rattle, and why. But I’m afraid that whatever turns up may be bad news for you. And I don’t want that.”

Porthos frowned. “You think my father’s somehow behind this?” he asked, failing to keep the note of incredulity out of his voice.

“I find it hard to believe a man like that doesn’t know what’s happening within his companies,” Athos said carefully. “Especially something on this scale.”

Porthos was silent for a moment, fighting down his instinctive need to believe the best of his father. “Look, ultimately I want to know the truth,” he said. “Even if it’s bad. Apart from anything else it’s my job.”

“And if it turns out he’s implicated?”

“Innocent until proven guilty, remember?” Porthos sighed. “Look at it this way, if my life’s prepared me for anything it’s hard truths over pretty lies. We’ll both do what we have to, and deal with the consequences.” He stood up and laid a hand on Athos’ head, and Athos leaned into him, pressing his face into Porthos' side while he stroked his hair.

“Come back to bed?” Porthos tried again, but Athos shook his head.

“I’ll just lie there not sleeping, and that’ll feel worse. You go up, please. You’re trying not to yawn, I can tell.”

Porthos gave in. He’d had a hard day and not enough sleep the night before, and Athos was right, he was shattered. 

When he woke the next morning Athos was already up and about and Porthos squinted at him suspiciously. “Did you get _any_ sleep last night?”

“Some, yeah.”

“I didn’t notice you come back to bed.”

“I got a couple of hours in the chair in the front room.”

“Athos - ”

“I’m fine. Don’t fuss.”

Porthos gave him a glare that was somewhere between worried, exasperated and helpless.

“Just promise that you’ll tell me if you’re not fine. Preferably before you’re _really_ not fine. Okay?” he ordered.

“I promise,” Athos agreed distractedly, already ignoring his breakfast and looking through his case file. Porthos hugged him goodbye, quietly relieved that Athos still wasn’t driving. 

“I’ll see you tonight. Be good.”

Athos did finally smile at that, and Porthos grinned and ruffled his hair as he left.

\--

Athos wondered where to start. Interfering with the murder investigation would get his knuckles rapped, which meant he had to approach it from the legal angle. Reaching the office he found the results of the previous Bio-Green environmental audits had come in, but a morning’s perusal revealed only that nothing untoward had ever been uncovered. 

Restless and jumpy from lack of sleep, he went out for some fresh air, but the summer heat lay thickly on the village and it felt like breathing in dust. 

Someone had spray painted an alien face on the Britain in Bloom sign in the square, and for some reason it made him shudder. He thought he’d seen the lights again last night, staring out of the window in the small hours, waiting for his body to wear itself out enough to overrule his head into shutting down for a bit. But it might have just been the tiredness making him see things.

He peered through the window of the estate agent to make sure Sylvie was in there alone, bought a muffin in the corner shop, and carried it in.

“You’ve got copies of the land registry plans, right?” Athos asked without preamble, placing the muffin in front of her.

“I like a man who appreciates the importance of a good bribe.” Sylvie got up and unlocked the plan drawer cabinet. “What are you after?”

“Local area. I want to see who owns the land on the hill opposite my cottage. I keep seeing lights up there and I want to know what’s going on.”

Sylvie hunted through the sheets and pulled one out. “Here we are. Where’s your house...here. It faces north right?” Sylvie’s finger moved across the contours. “Yeah, you’d be looking right across at Bracken Ridge.”

“Who owns the land up there?”

“Same as all this lot.” Sylvie described a wide arc with her hand from west to east. “Same farm conglomerate. Green-something.”

“Bio-Green?” Athos looked up, startled. “They own the ridge as well?”

“That’s just a fraction of what they own. Might be under a different name, but yeah. They’re one of the biggest landowners in the county, if you add all the subsidiaries together. Grubbing up hedges under cover of darkness most likely, creating those monster prairie fields.”

Athos looked at her. “Under cover of darkness?”

“Well yes, they’re a sneaky bunch – oh.” Sylvie caught his meaning. “You think they’ve been up to something up there at night?”

“Well I’m wiling to bet it’s not aliens.”

“How much?” Sylvie gave him a mischievous smile. “What are you willing to bet?”

Athos laughed. “What do you want?” he asked, willing to invest in a whole crate of muffins if it bought him some assistance. 

Sylvie considered. “Hmmn. A kiss.”

Athos blinked at her, blushing slightly. “I’m not sure Porthos would approve,” he murmured. Sylvie just grinned.

“Then you’d better hope it’s not aliens, hadn’t you? What do you want to do, go up and take a look?”

“We’d be seen. I don’t want to get done for trespassing, not at the moment anyway.”

“Oh where’s your sense of adventure? What about after dark then?”

Athos considered. “That’s not a bad plan. Whatever’s going on seems to be at night anyway. Meet you here at eight-ish? Should be still light enough to see then, and it’ll take us a while to walk up there.”

“Who’s talking about walking? I’ll pick you up at nine, we can drive up there.” Sylvie sat down behind the desk again and picked up the muffin. “Bring your balaclava.”

\--


	4. Chapter 4

“Toxicology reports are in sir.” D’Artagnan appeared in the doorway of Porthos’ office waving a print-out. “They’ve analysed the contents of Rattle’s stomach, and their best guess for the chemicals they found is that he ingested some kind of weedkiller. And there were chemical burns inside his mouth and oesophagus that suggest it wasn’t hidden or diluted in something else. Someone held him down and made him drink it.”

“And then disguised it with all that business with the crop circle and the injuries and tipping off the UFO lot,” Porthos said disgustedly. They never had traced the man who’d made the initial call and spread the news in the village, and were currently considering him to be their number one suspect. Although as Elodie had gloomily pointed out, he was probably at the bottom of a slurry tank himself by now if Bio-Green decided they wanted it hushed up, whether they’d been initially aware of the murder or not.

Porthos was still holding out a vain hope that the company wasn’t involved, but he had to admit there weren’t many other candidates. Marcheaux still favoured the wife for it, but that in itself made Porthos feel it wasn’t her. True, she inherited the farm, and if she suddenly sold up and moved to Spain he’d be a lot more suspicious, but he’d interviewed her himself by now, and was inclined to believe she shared her husband’s passion for the place.

Which meant the likelihood swung back in favour of Bio-Green. But was it a local feud with a few heavies working the local farm, perhaps a struggle that got out of hand? Rattle could have surprised them in another act of sabotage and made the mistake of accosting them alone and at night. Or was it something more sinister, a company-sanctioned hit? It seemed preposterous, but Porthos had seen the balance sheets, and knew the size of the sums of money that were at stake. People had done a lot worse for less. The question was, from how far up did the order come?

After putting it off all day Porthos finally put a call through to Belgard’s office, only to be told he was away at a conference. Both relieved at postponing what would be an awkward conversation and irritated with himself for acknowledging it, Porthos asked them to pass on his request for a call back, and hung up with a sigh. 

He should have asked for Belgard’s private number when he met with him, and it was only now occurring to him that the man hadn’t offered it, nor had he been in touch since that initial meeting. It had only been two days, but still. The man had just discovered his long lost son was still alive, Porthos considered he might have shown a little more interest.

On impulse, on leaving work he drove out to Belgard’s house, but nobody answered the intercom and the gates remained resolutely shut. Porthos scaled the wall, but no lights were visible in the distant house, and he could hear a dog barking somewhere, so he slithered down again, deciding discretion was the better part of valour. He’d just have to wait for the man to ring him.

\--

“Where are you off to?” Home late after his long detour, Porthos had been surprised to find Athos getting ready to go out again. 

“I want to check something out. It’s probably nothing.”

“I suppose I’m meant to pretend I haven’t noticed you haven’t actually told me where you’re going?” Porthos persisted, following him out in the hallway. Car headlights flashed through the door glass, and he frowned. “Who’s that?”

“Sylvie. Look, I shouldn’t be long, I’ll see you later, okay?” Athos kissed him on the cheek and disappeared before Porthos could protest. He wasn’t intending to break the law barring a little light trespassing, but what Porthos didn’t know couldn’t be held against him later.

He had cause to revisit that thought ten minutes later, when Sylvie was disappearing over a gate that was emblazoned with a large Keep Out sign.

Athos sighed, but followed her anyway. They made their way around the edge of several fields towards a large barn complex, having decided this was more discreet than approaching up the track. The buildings loomed up ahead, black against the summer night sky. 

Sylvie, who may or may not have been carrying bolt-cutters, was already hauling the door open. Three times her height, it rolled noisily sideways on a counterweight, and before Athos could stop her she’d disappeared inside.

Athos followed hastily, finding Sylvie standing just inside, cautiously shining a torch around the cavernous interior. 

“If you get me arrested this is going to be so fucking embarrassing,” Athos hissed, then stopped in his tracks as he saw what Sylvie’s torch was picking out. An enormous crop sprayer, bigger than a combine harvester, with articulated arms arrayed with countless nozzles that were dripping something noxious on the concrete floor.

“Look at the lights,” Sylvie whispered, her torch beam glinting off rows of massive headlights. “This must be what you saw out there. You’d see lights that size for miles. But why are they doing it at night? Crop spraying might be repugnant but it’s not illegal.”

“Depends what you’re spraying,” Athos said grimly. He’d found a stack of barrels at the side of the barn, and was taking pictures of the labelling. “I’d have to check, but I don’t think this stuff is on the approved list.”

“What was that?” Sylvie grabbed Athos’ arm. “Did you hear that?”

Preoccupied with the cannisters Athos looked blank. “Hear what?” he asked, but then he caught it – the distant murmur of voices. 

“Shit.” Sylvie snapped off her torch and Athos did the same. They stood in the chemically-scented darkness, wondering if they’d been heard. But the noise level didn’t change, and as their eyes adjusted to the gloom, they realised they could see a chink of light at the back of the barn.

Moving carefully, they edged towards it, until they could make out the outline of a door. 

Athos jumped as Sylvie switched her torch on again, and they both studied the wall. The door was hidden within the planking, but knowing where to look they soon made it out – and realised it was firmly locked from the outside with two heavy-duty padlocks.

“What the hell?” Athos breathed, exchanging confused glances with Sylvie. “Are there people locked in there?”

“Could be the aliens,” Sylvie whispered back, and Athos gave her a look. She grinned, and hefted the bolt-cutters enquiringly. 

Athos gave a reluctant nod, and she sheared off the two padlocks with an expertise that made him frown. Together, they quietly cracked open the door. Whatever they’d expected, the sight that met their eyes rendered them both speechless. 

The rear half of the barn was crammed full of people, some lying on mattresses, some on the floor. Others were on their feet, and staring at the newcomers in defensive surprise.

As they realised that Athos and Sylvie weren’t there to set them to work some of them surged closer, talking all at once in what seemed to be more than one language.

“Who are they?” Sylvie wondered. “Farm labourers?”

“I’m guessing, Athos agreed grimly. “Although the question that worries me more is why were they locked in?” He held out his hands, trying to quieten the sudden torrent of noise. “Does anyone here speak English? Français?” 

One nervous looking woman was pushed to the front, and Athos dropped back a little, letting Sylvie be the one to approach her.

“Are you okay? Why are you all locked in here?” Sylvie asked concernedly. 

“We come here to work.” The woman looked nervously at the man next to her, as if uncertain whether to go on, but whether he understood her or not, he nodded encouragingly. “We are told there are opportunities. But when we get here, we find we cannot leave.”

“They’re keeping you prisoner?”

“We are paid,” the woman admitted, looking pained. “But only a little. Less than we were told. Less than we were making at home,” she added, a look of anger warming up her features. “And we are escorted out, at night, to buy supplies, on a bus. They watch us, count us all back.”

“Why are so many people sick?” Athos asked quietly. At least half the people here were coughing miserably, and many of them had a nasty looking rash on their hands and arms. He had a horrible moment of wondering if it was something contagious, and that was why they were locked in. Had he and Sylvie inadvertently just broken a quarantine? But this looked in no way official, if anything it looked barbaric.

The woman looked around, and gave a helpless gesture. “It is the - ” she had a brief exchange with the man beside her. “The chemicals, we think. The spray.”

“They’re making you work in the fields while they’re spraying?” Athos demanded. He reached out and seized the woman’s wrist and she jerked back in alarm.

Sylvie gave him an irritable look and pushed him away. “It’s alright. May we see?” She reached out, and the woman hesitantly extended her hand. The fingers and wrist had angry looking blisters all over them.

“They don’t give you gloves?” Athos asked. “Masks?” Miming across his mouth. The woman shook her head, and Athos winced. 

“They’re being poisoned,” he said in a low voice to Sylvie. “Working with pesticides like these they should be in full body suits, and they haven’t even got gloves. They’re harvesting vegetables covered in toxins by hand, and if the barrels outside are the ones they’re using to spray they’re not even legal. Listen to that coughing. These people need medical treatment, and soon.”

“What do we do?”

“We call Porthos,” said Athos and she looked startled, following him as he walked back out into the barn. 

“Look, I know he’s your partner, but he’s the police!”

“Of course he’s the police, look at the scale of this thing!” Athos hissed. “It’s human trafficking and it needs to be stopped.”

“What are you doing?” Sylvie demanded, watching Athos wedge the door shut again. 

“The police need to find them here to be able to prosecute. If we just let them disperse there’s no evidence.”

“You’re talking about people’s lives!”

“I’m talking about preventing Bio-Green from doing this again as soon as everyone’s backs are turned,” Athos said shortly, taking out his phone. “There’s a bigger picture here.”

“I thought you were better than this Athos. I really did.” Sylvie stormed out of the barn and down across the field. Athos sighed, then made the call.

Walking slowly back down to the road he was mildly surprised to find that Sylvie’s car was still there and that she hadn’t summarily abandoned him. She was sitting perched on the bonnet, knees drawn up under her chin, staring into the darkness. Ignoring him, presumably on purpose, as she couldn’t have failed to hear him climbing over the gate.

He climbed up beside her, and for a moment they sat there in silence, looking up at the stars. 

“A man died Sylvie. Possibly because I agreed to help him,” Athos said eventually. “I know damn well Bio-Green were responsible, but I can’t prove it. But I can prove this, and I’ll settle for taking them down any way I can.”

“So all those people get deported just to salve your conscience?” Sylvie asked bitterly.

“They need medical treatment,” Athos pointed out.

“Oh yeah, because that’s why you’re doing it.”

Athos threw his hands up. “What would you have me do then? Release them into the countryside like so many caged birds? You think they’ll all find a nice little job, end the week in a cosy little semi-detached? Even if we’d only called an ambulance, they would have called the police themselves. At least with Porthos in control of this we can be sure they’ll be treated decently.” 

“I don’t need a lecture, Athos.”

“I’m sorry. Maybe I’m just not the man you think I am.”

Sylvie looked at him, her expression unreadable in the growing darkness. “I think you could be,” she said softly. “You just don’t realise it.”

Athos put a cautious arm around her then, and Sylvie leaned wearily into him. They were still sitting there on the bonnet with their arms around each other when Porthos arrived, two marked cars pulling in behind him.

“Everything alright?” he asked, eyeing them warily as he walked up the road towards them.

“Peachy,” Sylvie said brusquely, sliding off the car. “Fascist state in action.” She looked at Athos. “You coming?”

Athos nodded, guessing Porthos would have a long thankless night ahead of him here, thanks to this.

“Do you need - ” he started, but Porthos cut him off.

“We’ll handle it thanks. Your presence’ll only complicate my report at this point.”

Athos made a tactful withdrawal, sensing that Porthos wasn’t best pleased with him. To be fair, he should have told Porthos what he was doing in the first place, but what had he had to go on, other than vague suspicions about lights in the sky?

It had been the crop sprayers he’d seen, the monstrous machines with their mantis-like arms and huge lights, dosing the fields at night with unregulated pesticides for slave-wage workers to pick during the day. 

No winners here, he thought tiredly. The men and women who’d come looking for work had received toxic conditions and would, in all probability, be deported unless they could prove valid grounds for asylum. Rattle was dead, Donna was widowed. Sylvie and Porthos were both mad at him. And he was on the brink of a really nasty relapse into insomnia, hallucinations, and sedative cravings. 

At least things couldn’t get any worse, he thought.

“See you then,” Sylvie offered as he got out of the car outside the cottage, and he gave her a grateful smile, glad that despite everything they were apparently still friends. 

“Yes. Goodnight Sylvie. And I’m sorry about – you know. Everything.”

She rolled her eyes. “You know your problem?”

“What?” he asked, mildly hurt.

“You always think everything’s your fault. Even when it isn’t. Sometimes life’s just a bitch. Night Ath.” She drove off, leaving him staring up the road long after the red brakelights had vanished around the curve of the hill. 

\--

It was just past two in the morning when Porthos finally got home. Athos hadn’t even attempted going to bed, knowing sleep would be beyond him for the second night in a row, at least until he knew how things had panned out.

Porthos found him in the kitchen, and gave him a considering look.

“So what’s going on with you and Sylvie?” he asked neutrally.

Athos blinked. It hadn’t been what he expected, and he belatedly realised the picture the two of them must have made. But Porthos’ enquiry rankled when he’d done nothing wrong.

“We had an argument. We made up,” he said simply.

“She likes you.”

“So I should hope. We’re friends.”

Porthos put his hands on his hips. “She _likes_ you.”

“Well, I can’t help being irresistible.” Athos held his gaze with an expression of bland nonchalance. 

Porthos stared at him for a long moment, then gave a splutter of resigned laughter.

“Dick.”

Athos closed the gap between them and drew Porthos into his arms.

“Do I have to say it?” he asked quietly. 

“Nah.” Porthos sighed, mustering up an apologetic smile. “Guess I’m just on edge.”

“I’m sorry. I’ve fucked up your night.”

Porthos shook his head. “Only you could apologise for rescuing eighty seven people.”

“Christ, were there that many?”

“Yeah. From four different countries, speaking five different languages, and only ten of them possessing anything approaching passable English, which means I’m going to have to find translators before I can even start thinking about what happens to them.” He studied Athos’ anxious face and pulled him in close again. “Doc said it wouldn’t have gone well for several of ‘em if they hadn’t got treatment soon. You did good Athos. Although I wish to fuck you’d told me what you were up to.”

“I didn’t have a clue it would be anything like that until I’d got there,” Athos protested, and Porthos snorted.

“You just thought poking about in the dark on land belonging to people suspected of sabotage and murder would be a walk in the park?” Porthos sounded like he didn’t know whether to laugh or be genuinely cross. “What if they’d had guards there? I can cope with a lot of things Athos, but anything happening to you is not one of them.”

“I’m sorry.” Athos rubbed his eyes tiredly and Porthos pulled him into a hug. 

“Stop saying that.” 

“I can’t help it. I feel – I don’t know. Like things are slipping away from me somehow.”

Porthos squeezed him tighter. “Does that help?”

“Do it harder?” Athos said in a small voice, and Porthos crushed him in a bear hug until he was sure it must be hurting. Finally, after a long moment, Athos let out a whimper of relief and Porthos felt the tension go out of him. He relaxed his grip, although he was careful not to let go completely.

“I’m here, okay?” Porthos whispered. “If you need holding together. Whatever else happens, we’ve got each other and in the end that’s all that matters.”

\--

Athos let Porthos lead him to bed despite knowing he wouldn’t sleep. For now it was enough to lie next to him, enfolded in his arms and listening to Porthos’ quiet breathing, having fallen asleep himself within minutes.

It was getting light when Athos finally drifted off into unsettled dreams. He found himself standing in the church looking up at the green man carving, except now the greenery spewing from its mouth was real, leaves and briars and brambles twisting nightmarishly towards him. Roses bloomed like staring eyes in the froth of vegetation and despite himself he found himself reaching out to pluck them, feeling the thorns tearing at his flesh.

The flowers crumbled away under his touch, falling to ash in his fingers. There was more movement in the decaying greenery now, different, scuttling movements and he snatched his hand away as a flood of black centipedes poured out from the hollow stalks left behind. The stench of rotting vegetation assaulted his nostrils, not the good clean compost smell of fresh earth but the corrupt tang of slime and stagnation and he gagged, stumbling away.

Brambles caught at his clothing, twisting around his legs and he fell into a sea of leaves, feeling them writhing across his body. The last thing he saw was the staring face of the carving, empty now of foliage, and as the twisting, probing vines forced their way into his mouth he knew he had become the sacrifice in his turn.

\--

“Jesus.” Athos sat up in bed panting, his heart racing like it wanted to burst out of his chest. Sunshine was streaming in the window, and the clock said it was almost ten. Porthos would be long gone, and had clearly left him asleep. Athos wished he’d woken him up, and regretted all the times he’d grumbled when Porthos had done exactly that. He hadn’t had a nightmare that bad for a long time.

He swung his legs out of bed and something crunched underfoot. Puzzled, Athos moved to see what he’d trodden on. 

Crushed into the rug were two dead leaves.

\--

The paperwork involved in processing the labourers took most of the day, and repeated and increasingly irate phonecalls to Belgard’s office were getting Porthos nowhere. The need to get through to him only increased when d’Artagnan came in with the news that the chemicals found in the Bio-Green barn were not only restricted, they matched the contents of Rattle’s stomach.

The odds against anyone else having access to it were minuscule, and Porthos thanked him tiredly. Athos had been right then. It would be cold comfort for him, but at least perhaps it would permit a little closure. He gave orders for the entire workforce of the three adjoining farms to be taken into custody. It would give them a final opportunity to match a face to the blurry cctv footage from the shop of the man who’d spread the news of Rattle’s death. He left Marcheaux in charge of it all, figuring that an operation that involved causing maximum inconvenience to a large number of angry people would be right up his street.

He made sure he left work on time for once, anxious to check in with Athos. The man had clearly had a nasty wobble the previous night, and Porthos was worried about him. Sitting in his car outside the police station, he was about to start the engine when his phone rang. The number was withheld, but he answered anyway.

“DI Du Vallon.”

“Porthos. It’s your father,” said a cultured voice in his ear, and he sat bolt upright.

“I’ve been trying to get hold of you.”

“So I understand. I have been catching up on recent developments.” The man spoke slowly and deliberately, sounding neither concerned nor angry, but Porthos felt like it came with an effort. “We need to talk, you and I.”

“We’re talking.”

“No. In person. I would prefer not to do this over the phone.”

“I could come to the house.”

“Not necessary. I propose somewhere closer.”

\--

“Porthos?” Athos came out into the hallway at the sound of the front door, and found Porthos taking off his coat. “I wasn’t expecting you back for hours. How’s it going?”

“A few developments.” Porthos looked Athos up and down and pursed his lips consideringly. “How are you doing?” Thinking Athos didn’t look as bad as he’d feared finding him. 

“Oh, I’ve been worse.” 

Having given due consideration to his dream, Athos had picked a large bunch of flowers from his own garden and taken them to the church, begging a vase off Aramis and arranging them at the foot of the green man. Aramis had looked on curiously but asked no questions, and promised to keep the water topped up. 

Athos wasn’t sure if he’d done it to appease some primal spirit of vegetation or his own disturbed subconscious, but it had _felt_ right, and he figured it couldn’t hurt. Either way, he’d spent the afternoon in a blessedly dreamless sleep on the couch, and had found no more leaves in the house.

They ate in the kitchen while Porthos brought Athos up to speed as far as he could on the day’s events, but when Porthos pushed his plate away only half-finished Athos realised how worn out he looked. 

Athos rubbed his arm sympathetically. “You okay?”

“I guess. It’s just – why did it have to be this? In an odd way, the murder I could’ve coped with. But what amounts to slavery?” Porthos rubbed his face. “I mean, you’re right. Belgard’s the boss. What are the chances of him not knowing? I wasn’t born yesterday.” He straightened up, stretching his shoulders and groaning. “I need to speak to him.” Porthos checked his watch. “He’s agreed to meet me, up at the farm.”

“You mean now? Tonight?” Athos looked alarmed. “Alone?”

“I want to speak to him off the record. I owe him that.”

“You _owe_ him nothing.”

“Meaning what?”

“Nothing. Sorry, I -” Athos backed down. “I’m just saying. Going up there on your own. Are you sure that’s wise?”

Porthos stared at him. “What are you implying?”

“I’m saying that one person has died already,” Athos said flatly. 

“I’m his son Athos, what do you think he’s going to do?”

“His son that he thought was dead up to a few days ago. Are you absolutely sure he was pleased to hear from you? He’s not rushed to get back in touch, has he?”

“How can you say that?”

“How can you be this naive? At least let me come with you!”

“Not a chance. You’re not a policeman. The paperwork alone would bury me,” Porthos said trying vainly to inject a lighter note into what was building into an uncomfortably bitter argument, but Athos wouldn’t be distracted.

“Then for God’s sake take d’Artagnan or someone. Just – someone to watch your back.”

“Don’t tell me my job Athos.” 

“Well someone needs to! Don’t you have protocols for this shit? Belgard might be responsible for large scale human trafficking and indirectly at least for murder. Just because he’s your father doesn’t mean he’s not a potential threat to you.”

“What happened to innocent until proven guilty, eh?”

“Everyone’s guilty of something,” Athos muttered darkly. “Especially at that level.”

“Or do you maybe just want him to be guilty? Do you not want me to have this? Did you prefer it when I didn’t have any family, when I was more like you?”

“What the fuck’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“Forget it.” Porthos grabbed his coat. “I’ll see you later.” He stamped out of the house and got into his car, refusing to look back to see if Athos was watching from the window. He found he was shaking slightly, and took a series of deep breaths to steady himself. The worst thing was, he knew Athos was right. He couldn’t afford to let his guard down. The whole business made him feel sick. 

He took out his phone. “D’Artagnan? It’s me. You busy? Good. Meet me at the Bio-Green turning as soon as you can.”

\--


	5. Chapter 5

When the doorbell rang ten minutes after Porthos had gone, Athos jumped. He hurried to the door hoping irrationally that it was Porthos, that he’d left in such a hurry he’d forgotten his key. But the man on the doorstep was both unexpected and as far as Athos was concerned, unwelcome.

“Treville.”

“You know, just once I’d like someone to be pleased to see me,” Treville sighed.

“Maybe you should consider a change in career,” Athos suggested dryly. “What do you want? Porthos isn’t here.”

“He isn’t?” Treville looked annoyed. “I was hoping to catch him.”

“Maybe next time phone ahead. Or save yourself the time, just check the GPS on our mobiles, find out where we are.”

Treville sighed. “You’ve been watching too many films. Can I come in?”

Grudgingly Athos took him through to the kitchen and poured him some coffee from the pot.

“May I ask where Porthos is?”

Athos gave him a stony look. “Belgard asked to see him. He’s gone up to the Bio-Green farm.”

Treville looked startled. “He’s gone to meet him?”

“Said he wanted to let him explain.” Athos folded his arms, looking down at him. “Which is what I want you to do. Who are you? Where do you fit into all this?”

Treville took a moment to consider, then nodded.

“Belgard was my friend, once. We were young men. When he got Porthos’ mother Marie pregnant, he came to me, asked for my help.”

“Wait. He knew she was pregnant?” He was fairly sure that didn’t fit with what Belgard had told Porthos. 

“Yes. But he was already engaged you see, to someone else. An heiress. Old money. The scandal would have ruined his chances. He knew something of the areas I worked in, and he - ” Treville looked ashamed. “He asked me to make her disappear.”

“He asked you to kill her?” Athos asked, genuinely shocked.

“Nothing quite so direct, but that was clearly the implication. He begged me, threw all of our shared history and friendship at me, to make his problem go away. In the end I went to Marie. It wasn’t easy, but I convinced her of the danger she was in.”

“You threatened her,” Athos guessed.

“She had to be scared,” Treville said simply. “It was the only way to keep her safe. She had a friend, Phillipe, he was willing to go with her. I convinced them to disappear, to have nothing further to do with Belgard.”

“Did he know what you’d done?”

Treville nodded ruefully. “Not at first, but he found out somehow, eventually. He was fairly mad about it, but I pointed out he’d only technically asked for the problem to disappear. And it had, they’d vanished from his life. There was no question of them ever contacting him.”

“You knew where they were?” It was only half a question.

“Yes. But by this time Porthos was a few years old, and Phillipe had registered himself as the father. I thought it was over. I took my eye off things.”

“And then they died.” Athos stared at him, hard. “Was that - ”

“I don’t know!” Treville cut him off with the first display of emotion he’d let show. “I don’t know. It’s a question I’ve asked myself a hundred times, if Belgard had a hand in it. If he’d been tidying up loose ends. But there was never any proof.” Treville rubbed his face. “It was enough to make me take steps, just in case. I made sure the reports of the incident claimed that a child had died as well, and I got Porthos fostered out of London. Over the years that followed Belgard never went near him. I thought perhaps I’d been wrong in my suspicions. It _could_ still have been an accident.”

“You kept an eye on him,” Athos said flatly. “Porthos, I mean.” 

“I’ve followed his career with some pride. He’s turned into a fine young man. Done extremely well for himself.”

“Followed?” Athos ventured. “Or influenced? Youngest DI in the south east. He never was quite sure how he’d managed that.”

Treville squirmed a little. “I may have had an influence over the candidates. But not over the final selection. He got that rank entirely on his own merit. However, I suggest you don’t tell him. I wouldn’t want to shake his confidence in himself.”

“You like keeping secrets from him don’t you? Why the hell didn’t you tell him all of this when you spoke to him before?”

“He wouldn’t have believed me.”

“Why not? He’d never met the man, he had no preconceived notions. Frankly, he was expecting worse. But instead, after all this time, you just turn up out of the blue and merrily send him off to meet the man with no warning.”

“You have to understand, I never had any proof of wrongdoing. I just felt it was better to keep them apart. But when it seemed like your own investigation was likely to bring them together after all, I thought Porthos should be able to make up his own mind independently. You accuse me of interfering, and now you’re accusing me of not.”

“I think you interfere when it suits you. Must be used to it in your job, making decisions on what you feel is “best” for people.”

“You know the only time I’m really tempted to abuse my power is when people use air-quotes at me,” Treville said heavily. 

“I’m going to ask you one more thing, and for once I want you to tell me the honest truth. Do you think Porthos could be in danger?”

Treville was silent for a long time. “I hate to say it, but it is a possibility. If the man feels threatened - ” he let the thought tail off, but it was enough for Athos.

“I’m going up there.”

“I can help.”

“You’ve done enough,” Athos said angrily. “The best thing you can do now is stay out of our damn lives.” 

It was only after Treville had gone that Athos realised he’d made a mistake. He should have made the man go with him, not because he wanted his company, but because Athos had no other way of getting there. His own car had been totalled several months ago, and he’d never replaced it. Porthos had his car with him, and the farm was too far to walk, at least in any space of time that could be helpful. What were his other options? Sylvie would drive him if he asked, but Athos shied away from the thought of potentially endangering her. Another idea occurred to him and he left the house at a run.

The church was empty, and Athos ran past it to the row of modest houses beyond, banging on the door of the middle one frantically.

Aramis opened it looking alarmed. “Athos! Whatever is it?”

“Thank God, you’re here.” Athos had been afraid he might be up at the Manor. “I need your help. I think Porthos might be in trouble. Can you drive me somewhere?”

“Of course.” Seeing genuine alarm in Athos’ face, Aramis grabbed his coat and stepped outside, deciding questions could be dealt with en route. “Where are we going?”

“The Bio-Green farm. Through the village and left.”

\--

While Athos had been talking to Treville, Porthos had been sitting waiting with his lights off until a car pulled in behind him and a moment later d'Artagnan got into the passenger seat.

"Evening sir."

"Alright? Thanks for coming down. Appreciate it. Hope I didn't interrupt anything."

"No, Constance is up in London this week. What's up?"

Porthos hesitated. He hadn't shared the details of his relationship to Belgard with his team, and knew technically he should have, particularly as it became more likely that the firm was implicated in the murder. But he still held out hope that the man himself was far enough removed from the events on the ground to have had no knowledge of them, that he wanted to see Porthos to understand what had been happening. That he would help.

"I'm meeting the owner of Bio-Green," he said. "Up at the farm."

"The guy you've been trying to get on the phone?"

"Yeah. He asked to meet."

D'Artagnan looked confused. "Am I missing something? Is there a reason that you're meeting him in a deserted farmyard as opposed to bringing him in for questioning?"

Porthos drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, and stared blankly ahead up the dark lane. "He's my father."

There was a startled silence from the seat next to him. "Oh."

"Yeah."

"Shit."

"Yeah."

D'Artagnan paused. "You'll have declared this, I assume, somewhere in the files?"

Porthos cleared his throat awkwardly and d'Artagnan winced. "Does anyone know?"

"Not at work. I kept hoping it would never become relevant. There's nothing to say he's involved. He just wants a chat, that's all. Off the record, like. Figured I'd get more out of him that way. I'm sure there's nothing to worry about."

"Right. So why am I here again?"

Porthos turned to look at him. "In case I'm wrong."

\--

With d'Artagnan still beside him Porthos drove up the track into the farmyard. There were no lights on, and no other cars parked at the front. Most employees would still be awaiting processing, and operations here had been shut down for the forseeable future. 

While Porthos had been waiting for d'Artagnan to arrive from Crossley, a report had pinged into his phone that raids on other Bio-Green properties had turned up two more sets of forcibly held workers, and all trading accounts had been frozen pending further investigation. He was only just starting to realise exactly how big this was going to get, and now wondered if Belgard would even turn up tonight.

Everywhere seemed dark and silent, but as they got out of the car a dim light showed, not in the administration block but in one of the barns.

They moved across, entering through a side door. The place was full of parked up tractors and crop sprayers and wicked looking ploughing and harrowing equipment. The enormous tyres loomed over them, and Porthos wondered if this was where Rattle had sustained his post-mortem injuries before being dumped on his own land, making a note to get the concrete floor checked out for bloodstains. 

“Hello?” The barn seemed empty of life, Porthos’ voice echoing away between the stationery machines.

“Creepy, aren’t they?” d’Artagnan said, looking up at them. “Like giant insects or something.”

Porthos knew what he meant. With their serrated metallic limbs and big glassy cab windows they looked like they were about to pounce.

He suppressed a shudder and walked further in. “Hello? Police! Is there anyone here?”

There was a noise coming from somewhere, but in the vast and echoing shed he couldn’t pin it down. Without warning the noise grew to a roar as the engine of one of the crop sprayers suddenly burst into life behind him.

Porthos spun round in alarm just in time to see it lurch forward - not towards him, but towards d’Artagnan.

As d’Artagnan looked up in horror he realised it was far too late to dive out of the way – but Porthos was already moving, hurling himself at the young sergeant and bodily barging him out of the path of it. 

Off balance, Porthos tried to keep his momentum going and follow d'Artagnan out of the way, but his foot slipped and he almost went down. Somehow he kept himself upright but the crop sprayer was on him now, and he instinctively ducked beneath the outstretched arm, wondering if he could throw himself flat and pass harmlessly underneath the whole thing.

A blow to the shoulder made him stagger, and his first thought was that he’d been punched, but it was one of the segmented arms, rocking up and down as the machine lurched forward. It caught in his jacket and dragged him back into the path of the tyres and suddenly he was conscious of wetness on his face and clothes.

His first horrified thought that it was blood, that the metal arm had somehow sliced him open, but it wasn’t. He looked up, getting a brief confused impression of indoor rain, as warm liquid sprayed into his face. 

It took a second for his brain to register that it was burning. 

Eyes stinging, he tried to blink it away, then it became an agony of eyes, skin and lips. Porthos had been backing away, trapped between the dual arms of the thing while avoiding the wheels and the cab, but now he couldn’t see and his backward progress faltered. Something solid hit him full in the chest and then in the head and as he went down the pain finally stopped as everything went mercifully black.

\-- 

Pulling up in the farmyard, Athos was out of the car before Aramis had even turned off the engine. He recognised Porthos’ car as he ran towards the barn, hearing engine noise and shouting. Ignoring Aramis yelling at him to be careful, Athos shot inside the open door.

He was just in time to see Porthos go down, and his headlong charge brought him close enough to drag him clear of the still-rolling wheels. They finally crunched to a stop just inches away, which turned out to be because an incandescent d’Artagnan and Aramis had scaled the side of the mechanical behemoth and bodily pulled the man at the controls out of his seat.

Athos was already dialling for an ambulance, cradling Porthos' unresponsive form protectively in his lap. He paid no heed to the shouting going on around him until the lights went out, and in the sudden silence he realised the engine had stopped.

"Where did he go?" Having pulled the ignition key out from the complicated looking dashboard d'Artagnan realised that while he'd stopped the machine pumping any more acrid-smelling chemicals into the space, he'd also killed the headlights, and his night-vision was shot.

"He's - I don't know. I had him." Aramis' voice floated up to him, sounding frustrated. He'd leaped after the driver and got him in a headlock, but in the confusion of the sudden darkness, he'd pulled away and vanished between the machines.

"Find the bastard." D'Artagnan jumped down, nearly landing on top of him. 

"Stay where you are." An unfamiliar voice rang out, and they were both abruptly dazzled by painfully bright torches. Shading his eyes as best he could, d'Artagnan made out several men in rough working clothes closing in on them. More than one of them was carrying a crowbar or wrench, and he held a hand up in warning, groping for his ID with the other.

"Stop right there. Police."

"I don't care who you are, you're trespassing," came the reply.

“We were invited here,” said d’Artagnan quickly, remembering that Porthos had technically arranged to meet someone.

“Oh yeah? Who?”

D’Artagnan hesitated, trying to think for the life of him if Porthos had given him a name.

“Belgard!” The shout came from ground level behind them, Athos sounding tight and angry. 

“Never heard of him.” The spokesman for the group gave a nasty grin. “But what I do reckon is that you’re the folks responsible for us not getting paid.”

Aramis and d’Artagnan automatically moved closer together as the men stepped forward, instinctively sheltering Athos and Porthos from their menacing approach.

“Three against one,” Aramis muttered. “That’s hardly fair. Don’t suppose you’re armed?”

“Of course I’m not bloody armed!”

“Pity. Days like these I miss the army.”

D’Artagnan shrugged. “I’ve had worse odds.”

Aramis cast him a dubious look. “Have you?”

“Well. Not since I was six.”

Aramis snorted. “Athos,” he called. “You in this? I like our odds better with three of us.”

“Yes.” Athos materialised at their side, icily furious. “I’m in the mood to do some damage.”

They faced up against the six thugs, all of whom were considerably larger than them, accepting they were probably about to get the shit kicked out of them at best, but prepared to go down fighting. 

There was a moment of stillness as each man weighed up his opponents – then three of the would-be attackers suddenly jerked and fell to the ground. The remaining three just had time to look from their fallen comrades to the equally astonished faces of the men facing them, before they too froze where they stood only to collapse in a writhing heap. Somewhere overhead an arc-light snapped on, and blinking in the sudden glare, they made out a group of figures dressed in black, up to now unseen in the shadows of the barn and currently linked to the still spasming farm workers by a network of taser wires.

“Who the fuck are these guys?” Aramis wondered aloud.

One made a bee-line for Porthos and Athos stepped in front of him. “Back off.”

“We can get him to a hospital faster than waiting for the ambulance.” The voice was firm but not antagonistic, and Athos frowned. 

“Not until I know who you are.”

“You can trust them, Athos.”

He looked up at the man who’d just entered the barn and rolled his eyes. “Treville. I should have guessed.”

“If you mean thank you for saving all your arses, you’re welcome.”

“We’ll gloss over the fact you could have avoided this at all by telling us the truth from the start shall we?” Athos snapped back, but he let the men load Porthos onto a fold-out stretcher and carry him outside.

“Go with him Athos,” Treville advised. “Get that stuff off your hands.”

Athos looked down. He’d wiped the worst of the spray from Porthos’ face and mouth without a thought, and his own skin was already looking red and irritated.

“This isn’t over.”

“On the contrary. It’s finished.” They glared at each other, and Athos stalked out to follow Porthos to wherever they were taking him.

Treville looked around. “Right. You must be DS d’Artagnan. I’ll be taking charge here. This is considered a security matter now. ” He held out an ID badge that d’Artagnan read with wide eyes.

“Ho-ly shit. I mean yes sir.”

“I don’t believe I know you?” Treville said, peering at Aramis.

“Aramis d’Herblay. I’m the er, well, the vicar, actually.”

“Very funny.”

“No, ah – I really, er. Really am. I gave Athos a lift up here,” he added. 

“I see. Well you’d better take yourself off again. You too,” he added, looking at d’Artagnan.

“Hang on.” D’Artagnan had suddenly made a connection. “Did Athos call you Treville?”

“Why?” 

D’Artagnan hauled back and punched him straight in the face. 

A split second later he was surrounded by security forces, all of which, he noticed with a prickle of unease, were armed with nasty looking handguns as well as the tasers.

Treville waved them back, dabbing at his lip and looking more irritated than anything. “What the devil was that for?”

D’Artagnan glared at him, although a voice in the back of his head was currently screaming how lucky he was to have got away with it and still be breathing.

“Constance Bonacieux.” 

“Who?”

“You frightened her.” 

“I have no – oh. Her.” Treville finally placed the name and then looked even more confused. “What’s she to you? I thought she was la Fère’s secretary?”

“She’s my girlfriend. And you had no right. And she was never just a secretary!” 

Aramis plucked at his arm. “Let’s just leave them to it shall we? I feel we’re surplus to requirements here.”

D’Artagnan let himself be ushered hastily out of the door, and was rather relieved when Treville let them go. It was only when he got back to his car and started thinking about how the hell he was supposed to report any of this, that he wondered whether he’d still have a job to go to tomorrow. And for that matter, who he was supposed to report to.

\--

Porthos woke to darkness. Disoriented, for a moment he thought it was night time, then realised his eyes were bandaged. He reached up in alarm, feeling the edges of a dressing, only for unseen hands to come to rest over his own, gently moving them away.

"Easy. It's okay."

"Athos?"

"Yes. I'm here, it's me. It's okay."

Porthos felt arms slide around him, holding him comfortingly tight. He clung on, ashamed of the underlying desperation in his grip but needing the reassurance. 

Once he'd recovered his poise a little he made another attempt to pull the dressings off his face, and once again Athos gently stopped him.

"Leave it until the doctors say it can come off, okay?" he said quietly. 

"Where am I?" Porthos asked, suddenly realising he wasn't at home. The sounds and smells were wrong, and the fact he was most likely in hospital hit him embarrassingly late.

"You're in hospital," Athos confirmed. "You took a pretty big whack from the crop sprayer, went down hard. Nothing broken, but you've got a probable concussion and a few cracked ribs."

The memory hit Porthos suddenly, the dazzling lights, the huge machine grinding towards - "D'Artagnan," he blurted. "Is he okay?"

"He's fine.”

“Really fine, or – ?” 

“He’s okay. I promise. He’s not hurt. Thanks to you." Athos had subsequently been told by d’Artagnan that Porthos had almost certainly saved his life, and was glad Porthos had slept through the brief urge Athos had had to shout at him. Porthos was by nature brave, selfless and inclined to spontaneous outbreaks of recklessness, and Athos could hardly chastise him for the very things he valued in him. Even if it had put him in the hospital.

“So what’s with the bandage? Why can’t I see?” Porthos kept his voice admirably steady, and Athos squeezed his hand.

“You’ll be fine. Just be patient.”

“Athos - ?”

“When the crop-sprayer hit you - you took a load of pesticide to the face.”

“I’ve taken better loads to the face,” Porthos said, trying for levity, then looked panicked. “Fuck, tell me we’re alone.”

Despite the situation, Athos snorted with laughter. “We are, I promise.” Porthos had briefly regained consciousness earlier when he’d been brought in, but he’d been groggy and confused, and didn’t appear to remember it at all now.

“Thank fuck.” Porthos subsided again, groping for Athos’ hand. “Go on. You were saying.”

Some of it went in your eyes,” Athos admitted. It had been the diluted solution, he’d been told. Thank God it had, the neat chemical would have burnt his face off.

“That’s – not good, right?”

“Not overly. Hence the dressings. They’ve washed it out as best they can.”

“Athos – you’d tell me, right? If it was – you know. Awful.”

“You’ll be fine,” Athos repeated, a little desperately.

“Tell me the truth. Athos please, we’ve always been honest with each other. All I’m going to do is imagine the worst otherwise.”

“There is a small chance your vision may be affected,” Athos admitted quietly.

“Badly?” 

Athos made a non-committal noise.

“Athos tell me. What am I looking at here, buying a pair of reading glasses or a guide dog?” 

“I don’t know,” Athos said sounding strained. “It’s likely there’ll be some damage but there’s no real way of telling yet how much or how temporary the effects will be.”

“You mean it could be permanent?”

“...yes.”

“And how bad?”

There was a worrying pause. “It could be total,” Athos said, so quietly Porthos could barely hear him.

“I could be blind? You’re saying I could seriously be blind?” There was a rushing in Porthos’ ears, and he went hot and cold all over. Suddenly Athos’ arms were around him again and he clung on for grim death.

“It’s just a tiny possibility. It won’t happen. Porthos don’t you dare freak out on me, I wasn’t supposed to fucking tell you.”

Porthos gradually got his breathing under control again. “When will I know?” he asked numbly.

“They’re coming round later to take the dressings off. You may be able to see straight away, it may take longer.”

Porthos nodded mutely, and Athos bit his lip.

“Porthos – I know this isn’t a great time, but – will you marry me?”

“You what?”

“Will you marry me? It’s a simple enough question. And I even managed to get the actual words out this time, so I’m definitely improving at this whole proposal business.”

“Athos – I might be blind,” Porthos said heavily.

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Don’t be fucking obtuse!” Porthos snarled, then sagged miserably. “You don’t want to spend the rest of your life trapped with that.”

“I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” Athos said quietly. “And if I waited until we knew you were going to be okay, you’d always wonder if I’d waited on purpose. And if it was bad news and I still asked you, then you’d wonder if it was out of pity. So I’m asking you now. Before we know one way or the other. Because whatever happens, it doesn’t change the fact that I love you, and I want you, and I want you to know that none of that is conditional.” 

Porthos was silent, but after a moment he reached out, feeling for Athos’ face and tracing the shape of it with shaking hands. 

“You’re barmy,” he said softly.

“Am not,” Athos replied. “And it’s an old joke, but I’ve got the piece of paper to prove it.”

Porthos gave a choked laugh. “Can I think about it?”

“Of course.” Athos drew him in and wrapped his arms around him. “I’m not going anywhere.”

\--


	6. Chapter 6

The consultant who arrived later that day was on the brisk side of not-quite-rushed but took a moment to prepare Porthos before the removal of the dressings. 

“I want you to be braced for the fact that you may not be able to see right away, and to bear in mind that it doesn’t necessarily mean the worst. Your eyes may take a while to adjust, there has been damage, but we’re hopeful that it’s not too extensive. You may need to be patient, okay?”

Porthos nodded, his jaw set, and Athos wished he was close enough to take his hand. He’d been allowed to remain in the room on the condition he didn’t get in the way, and was hovering anxiously at the back.

They carefully peeled off the dressings and lifted the gauze, and Porthos blinked. He was obviously disoriented, and he stayed silent as the doctor shone a torch into his eyes, and then administered drops. Porthos winced, but still said nothing until prompted. 

“Do you see anything?” 

“Not yet.” Porthos’ voice was steady and neutral, and Athos had already guessed the answer. He hadn’t looked around, hadn’t looked over at him.

“Alright, this is not unexpected, as I say, we will give it a while.”

“How long’s a while?” Porthos asked.

“If there is no improvement in twenty four hours, we will start considering options.”

"Such as?"

"Surgery may be one, although it's too soon to say. The tissue damage looks to be mostly superficial, I'm still hopeful that things will improve on their own. Give it time, Mr Du Vallon."

Once they’d gone Athos moved over to the bed. “Hey.” He took Porthos’ hand in his. “They’ve gone. We’re alone. Talk to me.”

“What is there to say?” Porthos sounded resigned, and Athos winced.

“Well, if it was me I think the word fuck would be featuring quite heavily right now.” He pulled Porthos into a hug. After a moment’s stiff hesitation, Porthos hugged him back tightly. 

“It’ll be okay,” Athos whispered, holding him close.

“For a lawyer, you’re a terrible liar,” Porthos mumbled. 

“I’m better at it if I’m being paid.” Athos kissed him on the head and managed a smile. “Give it time. Like they say, it will adjust. Sleep on it, maybe.”

“Oh yeah, it’ll be really easy to drop off,” Porthos scoffed, but despite his words he was exhausted and still partially sedated and it wasn’t long before he slipped into an uneasy sleep. 

Athos resigned himself to another night in the same clothes and settled back in the chair. He could have gone home, but at the same time he knew he couldn’t. The thought of Porthos waking alone and unable to see was too awful to contemplate, and besides, time had ceased to have any real meaning in here, with the strip lighting and constant noise even at night. 

Porthos was at least in a side room rather than a shared bay and it crossed Athos’ mind to wonder if Treville had had a hand in it. He wondered what had happened at the farm after they left, and found he no longer really cared. He had bigger things to worry about now. 

\--

“Athos?”

Athos struggled awake, blearily at first then with a jerk as his elbow slipped off the arm of the chair. Finding himself in the hospital room brought everything back with an unpleasant lurch but then he realised Porthos was awake – and looking right at him.

“Porthos?” he managed. “Can you see me?”

Porthos nodded hesitantly. “Yeah,” he said, voice low and scratchy. “It’s all blurry, but – yeah.”

Athos was out of the chair and at his side in an instant, and they clung to each other. 

“Is it real?” Porthos managed. “I thought maybe I was dreaming when I first woke up. I’m scared it’ll go again.”

“No way,” Athos promised. “This is good. This is what they hoped, that it would clear itself.”

“Yeah.” Porthos sounded scared and uncertain and Athos held him close. He’d prayed for a miracle, and maybe, just maybe, they’d got one. 

\--

It was another week before Porthos was allowed home. The doctors were concerned not just about the damage to his eyes and his three cracked ribs, but his lungs, as he’d inhaled some of the spray and was suffering delayed respiratory problems. 

Eventually he was discharged with an injunction to avoid strenuous activity, and signed off work for a month with a view to additional medical assessments both from the hospital and the police to establish if he could return after that. 

It was a subdued Porthos who arrived home that evening. D’Artagnan had picked him up from the hospital, Athos still being without a car of his own or confident enough to drive Porthos’ without him. 

Having been pacing for a good twenty minutes before they were due, Athos rushed to open the door as soon as he heard the car, but Porthos brushed off his offer of help with an irritable wave.

“I’m not an invalid,” he snapped.

Athos and d’Artagnan exchanged a look, both of them just managing to avoid pointing out that technically he was. 

“Thanks for bringing him home,” Athos said. “I appreciate it.”

“No problem,” d’Artagnan said cheerfully. “You’ve got my number, yeah? Let me know if you need anything picking up, or if he needs taking anywhere.” 

Athos flushed, and mumbled more thanks, acutely aware that d’Artagnan knew why he wouldn’t be able to do it himself.

“Hey, I mean it,” d’Artagnan said quietly, catching his expression. “It’s no bother. The offer’s there, as long as you need it. Take advantage of me.” He grinned. “Everyone else does.”

“Alright. Thank you. I will. There’ll be a few check-ups he’ll need to get to.”

“Just let me know.” D’Artagnan indicated the direction Porthos had disappeared in with a tilt of the head. “You be okay, or do you want me to hang around for a bit? I thought he’d be happier, getting out, but he hardly said a word all the way back.”

“No, we’ll be fine. Thank you. I expect he’s just tired. He’s had a lot to deal with.” Athos hesitated. “Any word?”

“On Belgard? No. Word from his office has it that he went abroad for a business conference, but everyone seems very hazy about exactly where. As soon as we catch up with him, there’ll be a lot of questions waiting for him.”

Athos nodded, wondering privately if it was best for everyone if he never resurfaced. It was bad enough Porthos having deal with the thought his father may have been implicated in the death of Rattle, but having lured Porthos into what appeared to be a trap, there was also an outside possibility Belgard had been behind the wheel himself that night. Neither d’Artagnan nor Aramis had got a good enough look at the man to make a positive identification.

There was also another possibility that Athos kept returning to. Treville’s people had been there. Had Belgard really given everyone the slip and gone overseas, or was he currently locked in a windowless room somewhere, awaiting Treville’s pleasure? For all his faults the man had seemed to genuinely care about Porthos and Athos couldn’t see him taking kindly to what had happened. 

Athos bid d’Artagnan goodbye and went upstairs to see what Porthos was up to. He bumped into him coming out of the bedroom door and Porthos dropped something that rattled. Athos bent to automatically pick it up and Porthos snatched it out from under his fingers.

“Porthos? Everything okay?” Athos asked, surprised by his attitude.

“Yeah. They loaded me up with all this shite, I’m going to flush it.”

“What are they? Painkillers?” Athos took one of the cannisters from him to read the label, and didn’t miss the reluctance with which Porthos let it go. “I’m not going to run off with it and tip them down my neck you know,” he said mildly.

“No. I know.” Porthos scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “Still, better gone, eh.”

Athos gave him a sharp look. “Do you need these?”

“I’m fine. You know what they’re like. Give you anything to get you out the door.”

“Porthos for Christ’s sake, don’t get rid of painkillers you need because of me. I’m fine. It’s been months.”

Porthos just looked at him, unwilling to voice his misgivings but also too full of them to back down.

Athos sighed. “Alright, yes, staying clean is technically easier without temptation in the house,” he conceded. “But if you think my stress levels are going to be lessened by knowing you’re sat there in agony because of me, you have a very strange way of looking at it.”

“I just don’t want it to be a problem,” Porthos said quietly, relieved that Athos was at least willing to recognise there could potentially be one.

“Then count them, hide them, lock them away, do whatever makes you comfortable,” Athos insisted, giving them back to him. “But don’t ditch them if you need them. Not on my account.”

“As long as we can talk about it,” Porthos said. “As long as you promise to tell me if you start – hell, even thinking about them.”

“Fine, I’ll count to a hundred, you go and hide them.”

“It’s not a joke,” Porthos snapped at him, and Athos bit back a retort. Accusing Porthos of fixating on Athos’ issues as a way of avoiding thinking about his own was hardly the way to welcome him home.

“Why don’t we go and have a cup of tea?” Athos suggested peaceably instead. “And you must be craving a decent bath by now. And a good sleep in your own bed.”

Porthos wavered, then nodded tiredly, dropping the pill cannisters back into his sponge bag on the bed and following Athos downstairs without making any attempt to hide them.

Athos brought a tray of tea things into the sitting room and curled up next to Porthos on the sofa, unspeakably glad to have him back and more or less in one piece. 

“You okay?” he asked quietly, when Porthos had been staring into his teacup for several minutes without speaking.

“Yeah.”

“You want to talk about it?”

“No.” 

“Porthos - ”

“What’s to talk about? What do you want me to say?”

“Fine. Just – I’m here, okay? If there is anything.”

“Yeah. I know.” Porthos leaned against him a bit more heavily, and Athos put an arm round him, and kissed him on the side of the head. 

“Welcome home.” 

\--

For the first week after he got home Porthos spent most of his time asleep. His eyes itched, and he coughed so much that his cracked ribs hurt like he was constantly being stabbed. Reluctantly thankful that Athos had talked him out of getting rid of the good stuff, he found the strong pain relief made him sleep, and several days passed in a haze. 

In the second week he found things were worse. He couldn’t read or watch television for more than a few minutes without his eyes watering and stinging, and while the burning in his lungs had mostly gone he got out of breath quickly. 

His first check-up at two weeks was full of praise for his progress, but all he could think was why wasn’t he well yet. What if he failed the police medical, what if they wouldn’t let him back to work, what if they pushed him into a desk job? He acknowledged how much worse it could have been, but he’d always been in robust health, and was having difficulty coping. He tried to keep it all from Athos, not wanting him to worry, and knew he was failing miserably. 

Trying to build up his lung strength again he started taking a short walk into the village and back each day. Halfway through his fourth week of recuperation he was coming out of the shop with a paper when a familiar voice hailed him from behind.

“Inspector?”

“Elodie?” He smiled at her in surprise, wondering if this was an ambush or if she was in the village on official business. Which in turn made him realise how out of touch he was with everything already, and the thought made his face fall.

She smiled back. “Afternoon sir. How are you getting on?”

“Bored off my tits to be honest constable.”

“Fancy a drink then?”

He frowned. “You’re on duty.”

“I can have a coke. And I haven’t had me lunch yet. Besides, the boss is off sick, so who’s going to know?” She grinned at him, and he laughed despite himself.

“Yeah, alright. Why not.” He half suspected d’Artagnan had put her up to it, having fended off a number of texted offers from his sergeant to meet up. He’d even found himself wondering if Athos had got Constance to get d’Artagnan to make the offers in the first place, then wondered if he was getting paranoid. He’d never had many close friends and had actively avoided getting too close to his team, feeling it was a bad idea, and had no real idea how liked he actually was.

They settled into a corner of the pub and sipped ersatz coke.

“So. How’s it going?” Porthos knew d’Artagnan had been made acting Detective Inspector while he was away and was glad they hadn’t brought in a stranger, but now was in the odd position of wanting d’Artagnan to do well while wondering if they all managed perfectly well without him would he even be wanted back.

“Well, Marcheaux’s being a pain in the arse, obviously. He thought it should’ve been him in charge, and he’s making no effort to hide that fact.”

Porthos smiled into his drink, declining to comment. He wasn’t about to slag off one of his own officers, particularly to one lower in rank, but he could well imagine the scenes. Technically Marcheaux had been a DS longer than d’Artagnan and had more experience, but he wasn’t overly suited to managing other people and it had been Porthos’ recommendation that d’Artagnan be given the interim promotion. Not that any of them knew he’d had a hand in it, and it was best kept that way. 

“I’m sure d’Artagnan can cope with him.” He looked up. “How’s he getting on?”

“Not bad.” Elodie nodded thoughtfully. “Doing okay. Keeping your seat warm.” She smiled at him. “When you coming back then sir?”

“Depends on the medical. Could be next week, could be longer.” Porthos cocked his head. “Want me back then do you?”

“We all do. Even Marcheaux, although he’d never admit it. He’s not happy working to d’Artagnan, he sees it as an insult. He might grumble about you, but he does respect you.”

“Christ, this is starting to feel like a eulogy,” Porthos complained. 

“No sir, if you were dead he’d definitely have gone after your job.”

Porthos nearly snorted cola up his nose laughing. “You actually like him, don’t you,” he said shrewdly, when he could breathe again.

Elodie shrugged. “I get stuck on duties with him a lot. He’s not as bad as people think. He’s not as bad as _he_ likes people to think. He might be an arsehole, but he’s a reasonably competent one when it comes down to it.”

“Not sure you should be talking about him like that to me,” Porthos warned her gently.

“Oh don’t worry sir, it’s nothing I haven’t said to his face.”

Porthos swallowed another fit of laughter. He knew his own tendency to favour taking d’Artagnan with him on jobs meant Elodie and Marcheaux had ended up working together more than was probably fair. He’d initially worried that Marcheaux might be a bad influence on the young detective constable but he hadn’t considered the possibility that she might actually be a good one on him. She apparently had the balls to not put up with his crap and the empathy to see there might be something worthwhile underneath it.

“Should have made _you_ acting DI instead,” he mused.

Elodie looked surprised, not having been party to his train of thought. “Maybe next time, eh sir,” she laughed.

“Next time I get run over by farm machinery you mean?”

“Well, hopefully not! Although if you do see Marcheaux taking delivery of a combine harvester, I’d start running.”

Porthos’ phone pinged and he took it out to find a message from Athos. 

_Did you get lost?_

He remembered saying he was only popping out for ten minutes, and Athos was probably worried he was lying in a ditch somewhere.

He texted back _In the pub_ and put it away again, leaning back comfortably in his chair and feeling more cheerful than he had in weeks. “So then. Tell me what’s been going on,” he invited. “May as well bring me up to speed on stuff. I might be – I _should_ be – back in a few days.”

“Get another round in then shall I?” 

\--

When Porthos finally made it home two hours later, Athos gave him an assessing look, but said nothing.

“I’m not drunk.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“No.” Porthos leaned in the doorway and studied him. “You can say a lot without ever actually saying it, you can.”

“I’m hardly in a position to criticise anyone for being drunk,” Athos said. “Whatever helps.”

“I had three pints, that’s all. And a manky coke. In fact the beer was mostly to take away the taste of that.”

Athos got up and slid his arms around Porthos’ waist. “You’re very defensive for a man who’s not actually being criticised,” he said mildly. 

Porthos relaxed, and pulled him into a kiss. “Just – I dunno. Thought you might not approve.”

“You look happier.” Athos cupped his face, stroked his cheek. “How can I not approve of that?”

“Been catching up with the goings-on at work,” Porthos admitted. “Ran into Elodie.”

Athos looked surprised. “Any news on your father?”

“No. I didn’t ask, and she didn’t volunteer anything.” Porthos shook his head shortly. “It was just general stuff.”

Athos took the hint and changed the subject. “Bet they’re running d’Artagnan ragged.” Athos had heard various snippets via Constance, but got the impression d’Artagnan was well able to hold his own.

“Sounds like they’re coping.” Porthos hesitated. “I was worried they wouldn’t want me back.”

“And?” 

“Sounds like they do.” 

Athos smiled, realising that this, more than the beer, was where Porthos’ current air of relieved contentment was coming from.

“Well of course they do.”

“Now all I’ve got to do is pass the physical.”

“Hmmn.” Athos slid a hand down the back of Porthos’ jeans. “Maybe I should carry out an examination. See how you’re coming along.”

“I don’t think they’re going to be looking at my arse.”

“Which just goes to show how much more thorough I will be.” Athos kissed him, and towed him towards the stairs. 

\--

A week later Athos was sitting in the back garden, an empty mug of tea and newspaper on the bench next to him. He’d left Porthos asleep, and come out into the autumn sunshine.

The back door opened and Porthos came out, walking barefoot across the grass to join him.

“You should be wearing sunglasses,” Athos murmured. Porthos’ eyes were still weak. His vision and breathing had recovered, but he fatigued quickly and things became blurry if he spent too long in bright light, or staring at a monitor. It would get better, he’d been told, but warned not to push it. 

The long-dreaded official medical had resulted in him being signed off for a further week, but also told that he could return to work after that without any further tests, and despite the lingering pain and discomfort his mood had blossomed overnight.

“Good morning to you too,” Porthos retorted, sitting down next to him. Athos smiled.

“Sleep well?”

“Not bad.” Porthos nodded aimlessly. Athos looked sideways at him.

“Everything okay?” He sensed there was something on Porthos’ mind, but couldn’t tell what. The man had had a lot to face lately, and he’d consequently been a lot quieter than usual.

“I’ve been thinking.”

“I hope you kept some of those painkillers.”

Porthos slapped him on the leg. “Shut up. I’m being serious.”

“Sorry. What’s up?” Athos looked at him, then frowned in confusion as Porthos slid off the bench to kneel on the lawn. It still took him a good few seconds to work out what Porthos was doing, and the penny only dropped when Porthos reached up to take his hand. Athos’ mouth opened slightly in surprise as Porthos took a deep breath and gave him a nervous smile.

“I keep fucking this up when you do it. So, I figured it was my turn. Athos – will you marry me?”

Athos stared at him just long enough for Porthos’ nerves to start getting the better of him, then managed a jerky nod.

“You will?”

“Of course I will,” Athos breathed. “I mean, yes. Yes, of course.”

Porthos let out a relieved breath. “Thank fuck for that.”

Athos pulled him back up to the seat, still clasping his hand. “Did you really think I’d say no?”

Porthos gave him a guilty smile. “I did. Twice. You might’ve changed your mind.”

“You never actually said no,” Athos pointed out. “Not really.”

Porthos kissed him, then traced Athos’ face with his fingers. “I can’t stop looking at you. I can’t believe I almost never got to see you again.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault.”

“It kind’ve is. If I hadn’t taken Rattle’s case, Treville would never have had reason to lead you to Belgard in the first place.”

“It’s better to know,” Porthos said. “Do you think it was him?” he asked after a long pause. “Belgard I mean. In the crop sprayer?”

Athos shrugged uncomfortably. He’d wanted Porthos to talk about this stuff, but it didn’t mean he knew what to say. “I didn’t get a good look. Maybe not? And it sounds like whoever it was, was going for d’Artagnan rather than you.”

“Like that makes it better? Even if it wasn’t Belgard, he still ordered it. He got me up there, didn’t he? And he specifically asked me to go alone.”

Athos looked up. “You didn’t tell me that.”

“No. I thought you’d take it as proof he was up to no good.”

“And yet you still took d’Artagnan with you. Why?”

“Because you told me to,” Porthos admitted, giving Athos a sheepish smile. “I might’ve been pissed off, but I do listen to you you know.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear it.” Athos smiled, and kissed him. “It’s funny. Aramis told me to listen to you more, as well.”

“I’ve always liked him.”

Athos laughed. “Would you like him to marry us?” 

“Yeah. That’d be nice, actually. Can he do it in the church though? Aren’t they still a bit sniffy about gay weddings?”

“We could have it at the Manor. Anne’s had it registered. You could be her poster-boy.”

“We could you mean. No hiding behind me,” Porthos grinned. “When do you want to do it then?”

“Spring?” Athos suggested. “I like the flowers. And we wouldn’t be stealing Aramis’ thunder then, either.”

“Sounds good to me.” Porthos kissed him again, and gave him a soppy grin. “Fuck, we’re really getting married?”

“Yep.”

“Fuck.”

“Too late now.”

Porthos snickered, and took his hand. “No doubts. I love you.”

“I love you too.” Athos pulled him in for another, more lingering kiss and a gust of wind shook the climbing rose on the wall above them, showering them in petals and bringing with it the brief scent of woodsmoke.

“Did d’Artagnan tell you he punched Treville?” Porthos mused, when they’d gone back to snuggling up together on the bench.

“No, but Aramis did. And I’ll tell you something else,” Athos said. “Constance has been offered a position at a firm in Hangate. Willing to take her on as a trainee solicitor, while she takes her exams.”

“Are you saying they’re connected?”

“She was surprised, that’s all. They’re a top firm, and they’d completely ignored her initial enquiry. I just wondered if someone might have had a hand in it. As an apology, perhaps.”

“He does like interfering,” Porthos mused. “Do you think - ?”

“What?”

“Nah. Doesn’t matter. I’m going back to work next week. Doesn’t matter how I got there in the first place.”

“You got there because you’re the best man for the job,” Athos told him firmly. “And they all know it.”

“Maybe.” Porthos stretched out happily in the sunshine and took Athos’ hand. “You’ve got to tell me something though. Be honest.”

“What?”

“When this all started.” Porthos grinned. “Did you really think it was aliens?”

\--


End file.
